Slavic  Dept«  Main  Lib, 


[/,^-3 


THE   NOVELS  OF 

IVAN    TURGENEV 


THE    NOVELS    OF 
IVAN    TURGENEV 


I.  RUDIN. 

II.  A  HOUSE  OF  GENTLEFOLK. 

III.  ON  THE  EVE. 

IV.  FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN. 
V.  SMOKE. 

VI.  &  VII.  VIRGIN  SOIL.      2  vols. 

VIIL&IX.  A  SPORTSMAN'S  SKETCHES.    2V0ls. 

X.  DREAM  TALES  AND  PROSE  POEMS. 

XI.  THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING,  ETC. 

XII.  A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES. 

XIII.  THE   DIARY   OF   A    SUPERFLUOUS 

MAN,  ETC. 

XIV.  A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER,  ETC. 
XV.  THE  JEW,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK:  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
LONDON:   WILLIAM  HEINEMANN 


THE  NOVELS'  OF  IVAN  TURGENEV 


ON  THE  EVE 

TRANSLATED  FROM   THE  RUSSIAN 

By 

CONSTANCE  GARNETT 


NEW  YORK :  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
LONDON:    WILLIAM  HEINEMANN 
MCMXX 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 


jv^'.rN  i;i9RArt.Y 


p^.^^-  ^'^ 


A/3 


INTRODUCTION 

This  exquisite  novel,  first  published  in  1859, 
like  so  many  great  works  of  art,  holds  depths 
of  meaning  which  at  first  sight  lie  veiled  under 
the  simplicity  and  harmony  of  the  technique. 
To  the  English  reader  On  the  Eve  is  a  charm- 
ingly drawn  picture  of  a  quiet  Russian  house- 
hold, with  a  delicate  analysis  of  a  young  girl's 
soul ;  but  to  Russians  it  is  also  a  deep  and 
penetrating  diagnosis  of  the  destinies  of  the 
Russia  of  the  fifties. 

Elena,  the  Russian  girl,  is  the  central  figure  of 
the  novel.  In  comparing  her  with  Turgenev's 
other  women,  the  reader  will  remark  that  he  is 
allowed  to  come  into  closer  spiritual  contact 
with  her  than  even  with  Lisa.  The  successful 
portraits  of  women  drawn  by  men  in  fiction  are 
generally  figures  for  the  imagination  to  play  on ; 
however  much  that  is  told  to  one  about  them, 
b  9 


V^   *>   t>    I.     m 


ON  THE  EVE 

the  secret  springs  of  their  character  are  left 
a  little  obscure,  but  when  Elena  stands  before 
us  we  know  all  the  innermost  secrets  of  her 
character.  Her  strength  of  will,  her  serious, 
courageous,  proud  soul,  her  capacity  for  pas- 
sion, all  the  play  of  her  delicate  idealistic 
nature  troubled  by  the  contradictions,  aspira- 
tions, and  unhappiness  that  the  dawn  of  love 
brings  to  her,  all  this  is  conveyed  to  us  by  the 
simplest  and  the  most  consummate  art.  The 
diary  (chapter  xvi.)  that  Elena  keeps  is  in  itself 
a  masterly  revelation  of  a  young  girl's  heart ;  it 
has  never  been  equalled  by  any  other  novelist. 
How  exquisitely  Turgenev  reveals  his  char- 
acters may  be  seen  by  an  examination  of  the 
parts  Shubin  the  artist,  and  Bersenyev  the 
student,  play  towards  Elena.  Both  young  men 
are  in  love  with  her,  and  the  description  of  their 
after  relations  as  friends,  and  the  feelings  of 
Elena  towards  them,  and  her  own  self-com- 
munings  are  interwoven  with  unfaltering  skill. 
All  the  most  complex  and  baffling  shades  of 
the  mental  life,  which  in  the  hands  of  many 
latter-day  novelists  build  up  characters  far 
too  thin  and  too  unconvincing,  in  the  hands 
of  Turgenev  are  used  with  deftness  and  cer- 
vi 


INTRODUCTION 

tainty  to  bring  to  light  that  great  kingdom 
which  is  always  lying  hidden  beneath  the  sur- 
face, beneath  the  common-place  of  daily  life. 
In  the  difficult  art  of  literary  perspective,  in  the 
effective  grouping  of  contrasts  in  character  and 
the  criss-cross  of  the  influence  of  the  different 
individuals,  lies  the  secret  of  Turgenev's  supre- 
macy. As  an  example  the  reader  may  note 
how  he  is  made  to  judge  Elena  through  six 
pairs  of  eyes.  Her  father*s  contempt  for  his 
daughter,  her  mother's  affectionate  bewilder- 
ment, Shubin's  petulant  criticism,  Bersenyev's 
half-hearted  enthralment,  Insarov's  recognition, 
and  Zoya's  indifference,  being  the  facets  for  con- 
verging light  on  Elena's  sincerity  and  depth  of 
soul.  Again  one  may  note  Turgenev's  method 
for  rehabilitating  Shubin  in  our  eyes  ;  Shubin 
is  simply  made  to  criticise  Stahov ;  the  thing 
is  done  in  a  few  seemingly  careless  lines, 
but  these  lines  lay  bare  Shubin's  strength 
and  weakness,  the  fluidity  of  his  nature.  The 
reader  who  does  not  see  the  art  which  under- 
lies almost  every  line  of  On  the  Eve  is  merely 
paying  the  highest  tribute  to  that  art ;  as  often 
the  clear  waters  of  a  pool  conceal  its  surpris- 
ing depth.     Taking  Shubin's  character  as  an 


ON  THE  EVE 

example  of  creative  skill,  we  cannot  call  to 
mind  any  instance  in  the  range  of  European 
fiction  where  the  typical  artist  mind,  on  its 
lighter  sides,  has  been  analysed  with  such 
delicacy  and  truth  as  here  by  Turgenev.  Haw- 
thorne and  others  have  treated  it,  but  the 
colour  seems  to  fade  from  their  artist  char- 
acters when  a  comparison  is  made  between 
them  and  Shubin.  And  yet  Turgenev's  is  but 
a  sketch  of  an  artist,  compared  with,  let  us  say, 
the  admirable  figure  of  Roderick  Hudson.  The 
irresponsibility,  alertness,  the  whimsicality  and 
mobility  of  Shubin  combine  to  charm  and 
irritate  the  reader  in  the  exact  proportion  that 
such  a  character  affects  him  in  actual  life  ;  there 
is  not  the  least  touch  of  exaggeration,  and  all 
the  values  are  kept  to  a  marvel.  Looking  at 
the  minor  characters,  perhaps  one  may  say 
that  the  husband,  Stahov,  will  be  the  most 
suggestive,  and  not  the  least  familiar  char- 
acter, to  English  households.  His  essentially 
masculine  meanness,  his  self-complacency,  his 
unconscious  indifference  to  the  opinion  of 
others,  his  absurdity  as  *  un  p^re  de  famille  * 
is  balanced  by  the  foolish  affection  and  jealousy 
which  his  wife,  Anna  Vassilyevna,  cannot  help 
viii 


INTRODUCTION 

feeling  towards  him.  The  perfect  balance  and 
duality  of  Turgenev's  outlook  is  here  shown 
by  the  equal  cleverness  with  which  he  seizes  on 
and  quietly  derides  the  typical  masculine  and 
typical  feminine  attitude  in  such  a  married  life 
as  the  two  Stahovs*. 

Turning  to  the  figure  of  the  Bulgarian  hero, 
it  is  interesting  to  find  from  the  Sotcvenirs  sur 
TourguMev  (published  in  1887)  that  Turgenev's 
only  distinct  failure  of  importance  in  character 
drawing,  Insarov,  was  not  taken  from  life,  but 
was  the  legacy  of  a  friend  Karateiefif,  who 
implored  Turgenev  to  work  out  an  unfinished 
conception.  Insarov  is  a  figure  of  wood.  He  is 
so  cleverly  constructed,  and  the  central  idea 
behind  him  is  so  strong,  that  his  wooden  joints 
move  naturally,  and  the  spectator  has  only  the 
instinct,  not  the  certainty,  of  being  cheated. 
The  idea  he  incarnates,  that  of  a  man  whose 
soul  is  aflame  with  patriotism,  is  finely  sug- 
gested, but  an  idea,  even  a  great  one,  does  not 
make  an  individuality.  And  in  fact  Insarov  is 
not  a  man,  he  is  an  automaton.  To  compare 
Shubin's  utterances  with  his  is  to  perceive 
that  there  is  no  spontaneity,  no  inevitability  in 

Insarov.     He  is  a  patriotic  clock  wound  up  tc 
ix 


ON  THE  EVE 

go  for  the  occasion,  and  in  truth  he  is  very 
useful.  Only  on  his  deathbed,  when  the  un- 
expected happens,  and  the  machinery  runs 
down,  do  we  feel  moved.  Then,  he  appears 
more  striking  dead  than  alive — a  rather  damn- 
ing testimony  to  the  power  Turgenev  credits 
him  with.  This  artistic  failure  of  Turgenev's 
is,  as  he  no  doubt  recognised,  curiously  lessened 
by  the  fact  that  young  girls  of  Elena's  lofty 
idealistic  type  are  particularly  impressed  by 
certain  stiff  types  of  men  of  action  and  great 
will-power,  whose  capacity  for  moving  straight 
towards  a  certain  goal  by  no  means  implies 
corresponding  brain-power.  The  insight  of  a 
Shubin  and  the  moral  worth  of  a  Bersenyev 
are  not  so  valuable  to  the  Elenas  of  this  world, 
whose  ardent  desire  to  be  made  good  use  of, 
and  to  seek  some  great  end,  is  best  developed 
by  strength  of  aim  in  the  men  they  love. 

And  now  to  see  what  the  novel  before  us 
means  to  the  Russian  mind,  we  must  turn  to 
the  infinitely  suggestive  background.  Tur- 
genev's genius  was  of  the  same  force  in  politics 
as  in  art ;  it  was  that  of  seeing  aright.  He 
saw  his  country  as  it  was,  with  clearer  eyes 


INTRODUCTION 

than  any  man  before  or  since.  If  Tolstoi  is 
a  purer  native  expression  of  Russia's  force, 
Turgenev  is  the  personification  of  Russian 
aspiration  working  with  the  instruments  of  wide 
cosmopolitan  culture.  As  a  critic  of  his  country- 
men nothing  escaped  Turgenev's  eye,  as  a  poli- 
tician he  foretold  nearly  all  that  actually  came 
to  pass  in  his  life,  and  as  a  consummate  artist, 
led  first  and  foremost  by  his  love  for  his  art,  his 
novels  are  undying  historical  pictures.  It  is 
not  that  there  is  anything  allegorical  in  his 
novels — allegory  is  at  the  furthest  pole  from 
his  method  :  it  is  that  whenever  he  created  an 
important  figure  in  fiction,  that  figure  is  neces- 
sarily a  revelation  of  the  secrets  of  the  father- 
land, the  soil,  the  race.  Turgenev,  in  short,  was 
a  psychologist  not  merely  of  men,  but  of  nations ; 
and  so  the  chief  figure  of  On  the  Eve^  Elena, 
foreshadows  and  stands  for  the  rise  of  young 
Russia  in  the  sixties.  Elena  is  young  Russia, 
and  to  whom  does  she  turn  in  her  prayer  for 
strength  }  Not  to  Bersenyev,  the  philosopher, 
the  dreamer ;  not  to  Shubin,  the  man  carried 
outside  himself  by  every  passing  distraction ; 
but  to  the  strong  man,  Insarov.  And  here  the 
irony  of  Insarov   being   made   a   foreigner,  a 


r^. 


ON  THE  EVE 

Bulgarian,  is  significant  of  Turgenev*s  distrust 
of  his  country's  weakness.  The  hidden  mean- 
ing of  the  novel  is  a  cry  to  the  coming  men  to 
unite  their  strength  against  the  foe  without  and 
the  foe  within  the  gates ;  it  is  an  appeal  to  them 
not  only  to  hasten  the  death  of  the  old  regime  of 
Nicolas  I.,  but  an  appeal  to  them  to  conquer  their 
sluggishness,  their  weakness,  and  their  apathy. 
It  is  a  cry  for  Men.  Turgenev  sought  in  vain 
in  life  for  a  type  of  man  to  satisfy  Russia,  and 
ended  by  taking  no  living  model  for  his  hero, 
but  the  hearsay  Insarov,  a  foreigner.  Russia 
has  not  yet  produced  men  of  this  type.  But 
the  artist  does  not  despair  of  the  future. 
Here  we  come  upon  one  of  the  most  striking 
figures  of  Turgenev — that  of  Uvar  Ivanovitch. 
He  symbolises  the  ever-predominant  type  of 
Russian,  the  sleepy,  slothful  Slav  of  to-day, 
yesterday,  and  to-morrow.  He  is  the  Slav 
whose  inherent  force  Europe  is  as  ignorant  of 
as  he  is  himself.  Though  he  speaks  only  twenty 
sentences  in  the  book  he  is  a  creation  of  Tol- 
stoian  force.  His  very  words  are  dark  and  of 
practically  no  significance.  There  lies  the  irony 
of  the  portrait.  The  last  words  of  the  novel, 
the    most  biting    surely  that  Turgenev  ever 


INTRODUCTION 

wrote,  contain  the  whole  essence  of  On  the  Eve. 
On  the  Eve  of  What?  one  asks.  Time  has 
given  contradictory  answers  to  the  men  of  all 
parties.  The  Elenas  of  to-day  need  not  turn 
their  eyes  abroad  to  find  their  counterpart  in 
spirit ;  so  far  at  least  the  pessimists  are  re- 
futed :  but  the  note  of  death  that  Turgenev 
strikes  in  his  marvellous  chapter  on  Venice 
has  still  for  young  Russia  an  ominous  echo- 
so  many  generations  have  arisen  eager,  only  to 
be  flung  aside  helpless,  that  one  asks,  what  of 
the  generation  that  fronts  Autocracy  to-day? 

*  Do  you  remember  I  asked  you,  "  Will  there  ever 
be  men  among  us?"  and  you  answered,  there  will 
be.  O  primaeval  force !  And  now  from  here  in 
"  my  poetic  distance  "  I  will  ask  you  again,  "  What 
do  you  say,  Uvar  Ivanovitch,  will  there  be  ?  " 

*  Uvar  Ivanovitch  flourished  his  fingers,  and  fixed 
his  enigmatical  stare  into  the  far  distance.' 

This  creation  of  an  universal  national  type, 
out  of  the  flesh  and  blood  of  a  fat  taciturn 
country  gentleman,  brings  us  to  see  that  Tur- 
genev was  not  merely  an  artist,  but  that  he  was 
a  poet  using  fiction  as  his  medium.  To  this 
end  it  is  instructive  to  compare  Jane  Austen, 
perhaps  the  greatest  English  exponent  of  the 
xiii 


ON  THE  EVE 

domestic  novel,  with  the  Russian  master,  and 
to  note  that,  while  as  a  novelist  she  emerges 
favourably  from  the  comparison,  she  is  abso- 
lutely wanting  in  his  poetic  insight.  How 
petty  and  parochial  appears  her  outlook  in 
Emma,  compared  to  the  wide  and  unflinching 
gaze  of  Turgenev.  She  painted  most  admir- 
ably the  English  types  she  knew,  and  how  well 
she  knew  them !  but  she  failed  to  correlate 
them  with  the  national  life ;  and  yet,  while  her 
men  and  women  were  acting  and  thinking, 
Trafalgar  and  Waterloo  were  being  fought  and 
won.  But  each  of  Turgenev's  novels  in  some 
subtle  way  suggests  that  the  people  he  intro- 
duces are  playing  their  little  part  in  a  great 
national  drama  everywhere  around  us,  invisible, 
yet  audible  through  the  clamour  of  voices  near 
us.  And  so  On  the  Eve,  the  work  of  a  poet,  has 
certain  deep  notes,  which  break  through  the 
harmonious  tenor  of  the  whole,  and  strangely 
and  swiftly  transfigure  the  quiet  story,  troub- 
ling us  with  a  dawning  consciousness  of  the 
march  of  mighty  events.  Suddenly  a  strange 
sense  steals  upon  the  reader  that  he  is  living  in 
a  perilous  atmosphere,  filling  his  heart  with 
foreboding,  and  enveloping  at  length  the  char- 
xiv 


INTRODUCTION 

acters  themselves,  all  unconsciously  awaiting 
disaster  in  the  sunny  woods  and  gardens  of 
Kuntsovo.  But  not  till  the  last  chapters  are 
reached  does  the  English  reader  perceive  that 
in  recreating  for  him  the  mental  atmosphere  of 
a  single  educated  Russian  household,  Turgenev 
has  been  casting  before  his  eyes  the  faint 
shadow  of  the  national  drama  which  was  indeed 
played,  though  left  unfinished,  on  the  Balkan 
battlefields  of  iZ^d-y.  Briefly,  Turgenev,  in 
sketching  the  dawn  of  love  in  a  young  girl's 
soul,  has  managed  faintly,  but  unmistakably, 
to  make  spring  and  flourish  in  our  minds  the 
ineradicable,  though  hidden,  idea  at  the  back  of 
Slav  thought — the  unification  of  the  Slav  races. 
How  doubly  welcome  that  art  should  be 
which  can  lead  us,  the  foreigners,  thus  straight 
to  the  heart  of  the  national  secrets  of  a  great 
people,  secrets  which  our  own  critics  and  diplo- 
matists must  necessarily  misrepresent.  Each 
of  Turgenev's  novels  may  be  said  to  contain  a 
light-bringing  rejoinder  to  the  old-fashioned 
criticism  of  the  Muscovite,  current  up  to  the  rise 
of  the  Russian  novel,  and  still,  unfortunately, 
lingering  among  us ;  but  Oti  the  Eve^  of  all  the 
novels,  contains  perhaps  the  most  instructive 


ON  THE  EVE 

political  lesson  England  can  learn.  Europe 
has  always  had,  and  most  assuredly  England 
has  been  over-rich  in  those  alarm-monger  critics, 
watchdogs  for  ever  baying  at  Slav  cupidity, 
treachery,  intrigue,  and  so  on  and  so  on.  It  is 
useful  to  have  these  well-meaning  animals  on 
the  political  premises,  giving  noisy  tongue 
whenever  the  Slav  stretches  out  his  long  arm 
and  opens  his  drowsy  eyes,  but  how  rare  it  is 
to  find  a  man  who  can  teach  us  to  interpret  a 
nation's  aspirations,  to  gauge  its  inner  force,  its 
aim,  its  inevitability.  Turgenev  gives  us  such 
clues.  In  the  respectful,  if  slightly  forced, 
silence  that  has  been  imposed  by  certain  recent 
political  events  on  the  tribe  of  faithful  watch- 
dogs, it  may  be  permitted  to  one  to  say,  that 
whatever  England's  interest  may  be  in  relation 
to  Russia's  development,  it  is  better  for  us  to 
understand  the  force  of  Russian  aims,  before 
we  measure  our  strength  against  it.  And  a 
novel,  such  as  On  the  Eve,  though  now  nearly 
forty  years  old,  and  to  the  short-sighted  out  of 
date,  reveals  in  a  flash  the  attitude  of  the  Slav 
towards  his  political  destiny.  His  aspirations 
may  have  to  slumber  through  policy  or  neces- 
sity ;  they  may  be  distorted  or  misrepresented, 
xvi 


INTRODUCTION 

or  led  astray  by  official  action,  but  we  confess 
that  for  us,  Onll]£.Ev_e  suggests  the  existent  of 
a  migjit>LiaJ^^whose  waters,  dammedback  for 
a  while,  are  rising  slowly,  but  are  stillsome  way 
/rom  the  brim.  How  lon'g  will  it  take  to  the 
oyerHow-^  Nobodyjoiows ;  but  when  the  long 
winter  of  Russia's  dark  internal  policy  shall 
be  broken  up,  will  the  snows,  melting  on  the 
mountains,  stream  south-west,  inundating  the 
Valley  of  the  Danube  ?  Or,  as  the  national 
poet,  Pushkin,  has  sung,  will  there  be  a  pouring 
of  many  Slavonian  rivulets  into  the  Russian  sea, 
a  powerful  attraction  of  the  Slav  races  towards 
a  common  centre  to  create  an  era  of  peace  and 
development  within,  whereby  Russia  may  rise 
free  and  rejoicing  to  face  her  great  destinies  ? 
Hard  and  bitter  is  the  shaping  of  nations. 
Uvar  Ivanovitch  still  fixes  his  enigmatical  stare 
into  the  far  distance. 

EDWARD  GARNETT 
January  1895. 


xv« 


THE  NAMES  OF  THE  CHARACTERS 
IN  THE  BOOK 

V  NikolAi  [Nico/as]  Arti^myevitch  St^hov.   ^        Z«-<:^^^    w 
A  Anna  VASsfLYEVNA.    -    -t-^,*— ^^^-^'^^^-c--'  ^  ^-C«_--»--^  • 
XEl^na  [L^notchka,  Helene]  NikolAevna.  -    ■^-'i-*— -^--^ . 

>  Z6yA  \Zo'i\  NlKfxiSHNA  MULLER. 

j^  Andr^^i  Petr6vitch  Bersi^nyev.  w^-^**^  '  T*^"^  -    2^  i 
-vPAvEL  \Patil'\  Yakovlitch  (<?r  Yakovitch)  Shi5bin.  ^-^^■^' — '-  ^^ 
X  DMfxRi  Nikan6rovitch  {or  Nikan6ritch)  InsArov,  -  'Xf  h^i^-^^ 
K  Yeg6r  Andr^itch  Kurnat6vsky. 

^UvAr  IvAnovitch  StAhov.^  A-^'^^^'^^e^^-'--'-'*^^ '^^-'^'^^^ 
AAuGusxfNA  ChristiAnovna. 
Annushka. 


In  transcribing  the  Russian  names  into  English— 
a    has  the  sound  of  a  in  father, 
e  ff  ff         a  in  /^ane. 

I  ,1  „        ee. 

«         „  „        00. 

y   is   always   consonantal  except  when  it  is 

the  last  letter  of  the  word. 
g  is  always  hard. 


XIX 


I 


On  one  of  the  hottest  days  of  the  summer  of 
1853,  in  the  shade  of  a  tall  lime-tree  on  the 
bank  of  the  river  Moskva,  not  far  from  Kuntsovo, 
two  young  men  were  lying  on  the  grass.  One, 
who  looked  about  twenty  -  three,  tall  and 
swarthy,  with  a  sharp  and  rather  crooked  nose, 
a  high  forehead,  and  a  restrained  smile  on  his 
wide  mouth,  was  lying  on  his  back  and  gazing 
meditatively  into  the  distance,  his  small  grey 
eyes  half  closed.  The  other  was  lying  on  his 
chest,  his  curly,  fair  head  propped  on  his  two 
hands ;  he,  too,  was  looking  away  into  the 
distance.  He  was  three  years  older  than  his 
companion,  but  seemed  much  younger.  His 
moustache  was  only  just  growing,  and  his  chin 
was  covered  with  a  light  curly  down.  There 
was  something  childishly  pretty,  something  at- 
tractively delicate,  in  the  small  features  of  his 
fresh  round  face,  in  his  soft  brown  eyes,  lovely 
pouting  lips,  and  little  white  hands.  Every- 
thing about  him  was  suggestive  of  the  happy 


ON   THE   EVE 

light-heartedness  of  perfect  health  and  youth — 
the  carelessness,  conceit,  self-indulgence,  and 
charm  of  youth.  He  used  his  eyes,  and  smiled 
and  leaned  his  head  as  boys  do  who  know 
that  people  look  at  them  admiringly.  He 
wore  a  loose  white  coat,  made  like  a  blouse,  a 
blue  kerchief  wrapped  his  slender  throat,  and 
a  battered  straw  hat  had  been  flung  on  the 
grass  beside  him. 

His  companion  seemed  elderly  in  comparison 
with  him  ;  and  no  one  would  have  supposed, 
from  his  angular  figure,  that  he  too  was  happy 
and  enjoying  himself  He  lay  in  an  awkward 
attitude ;  his  large  head — wide  at  the  crown 
and  narrower  at  the  base — hung  awkwardly  on 
his  long  neck  ;  awkwardness  was  expressed  in 
the  very  pose  of  his  hands,  of  his  body,  tightly 
clothed  in  a  short  black  coat,  and  of  his  long 
legs  with  their  knees  raised,  like  the  hind-legs 
of  a  grasshopper.  For  all  that,  it  was  im- 
possible not  to  recognise  that  he  was  a  man  of 
good  education  ;  the  whole  of  his  clumsy  person 
bore  the  stamp  of  good-breeding  ;  and  his  face, 
plain  and  even  a  little  ridiculous  as  it  was, 
showed  a  kindly  nature  and  a  thoughtful  habit. 
His  name  was  Andrei  Petrovitch  Bersenyev ; 
his  companion,  the  fair-haired  young  man,  was 
called  Pavel  Yakovlitch  Shubin. 

*  Why  don't  you  lie  on  your  face,  like  me  ?  * 


ON  THE  EVE 

began  Shubin.  *  It  *s  ever  so  much  nicer  so  ; 
especially  when  you  kick  up  your  heels  and 
clap  them  together — like  this.  You  have  the 
grass  under  your  nose ;  when  you  're  sick  of 
staring  at  the  landscape  you  can  watch  a  fat 
beetle  crawling  on  a  blade  of  grass,  or  an  ant 
fussing  about.  It's  really  much  nicer.  But 
you've  taken  up  a  pseudo-classical  pose,  for  all 
the  world  like  a  ballet-dancer,  when  she  re- 
clines upon  a  rock  of  paste-board.  You  should 
remember  you  have  a  perfect  right  to  take  a 
rest  now.  It's  no  joking  matter  to  come  out 
third !  Take  your  ease,  sir ;  give  up  all  exer- 
tion, and  rest  your  weary  limbs  ! ' 

Shubin  delivered  this  speech  through  his 
nose  in  a  half-lazy,  half-joking  voice  (spoilt 
children  speak  so  to  friends  of  the  house  who 
bring  them  sweetmeats),  and  without  waiting 
for  an  answer  he  went  on  : 

*  What  strikes  me  most  forcibly  in  the 
ants  and  beetles  and  other  worthy  insects  is 
their  astounding  seriousness.  They  run  to  and 
fro  with  such  a  solemn  air,  as  though  their  life 
were  something  of  such  importance  !  A  man 
the  lord  of  creation,  the  highest  being,  stares  at 
them,  if  you  please,  and  they  pay  no  attention 
to  him.  Why,  a  gnat  will  even  settle  on  the 
lord  of  creation's  nose,  and  make  use  of  him  for 
food  It 's  most  offensive.  And,  on  the  other 
3 


ON   THE   EVE 

hand,  how  is  their  life  inferior  to  ours  ?  And 
why  shouldn't  they  take  themselves  seriously, 
if  we  are  to  be  allowed  to  take  ourselves  seri- 
ously? There  now,  philosopher,  solve  that 
problem  for  me  !    Why  don't  you  speak  ?    Eh  ?  ' 

*  What  ? '  said  Bersenyev,  starting. 

*  What !  *  repeated  Shubin.  '  Your  friend 
lays  his  deepest  thoughts  before  you,  and  you 
don't  listen  to  him.' 

*  I  was  admiring  the  view.  Look  how  hot 
and  bright  those  fields  are  in  the  sun.*  Ber- 
senyev spoke  with  a  slight  lisp. 

*  There 's  some  fine  colour  laid  on  there,' 
observed  Shubin.  *  Nature 's  a  good  hand  at  it, 
that 's  the  fact ! ' 

Bersenyev  shook  his  head. 

*  You  ought  to  be  even  more  ecstatic  over  it 
than  I.    It 's  in  your  line  :  you  're  an  artist.' 

'  No  ;  it 's  not  in  my  line,'  rejoined  Shubin, 
putting  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head.  '  Flesh 
is  my  line  ;  my  work 's  with  flesh — modelling 
flesh,  shoulders,  legs,  and  arms,  and  here  there 's 
no  form,  no  finish  ;  it's  all  over  the  place.  .  .  . 
Catch  it  if  you  can.* 

*But  there  is  beauty  here,  too,'  remarked 
Bersenyev. — 'By  the  way,  have  you  finished 
your  bas-relief?' 

*  Which  one  ? ' 

*  The  boy  with  the  goat.' 

4 


ON  THE  EVE 

*  Hang  it !  Hang  it !  Hang  it !  *  cried  Shubin, 
drawling — '  I  looked  at  the  genuine  old  things, 
the  antiques,  and  I  smashed  my  rubbish  to 
pieces.  You  point  to  nature,  and  say  "there's 
beauty  here,  too."  Of  course,  there 's  beauty  in 
everything,  even  in  your  nose  there 's  beauty ; 
but  you  can't  try  after  all  kinds  of  beauty. 
The  ancients,  they  didn't  try  after  it ;  beauty 
came  down  of  itself  upon  their  creations  from 
somewhere  or  other — from  heaven,  I  suppose. 
The  whole  world  belonged  to  them  ;  it 's  not  for 
us  to  be  so  large  in  our  reach  ;  our  arms  are 
short.  We  drop  our  hook  into  one  little  pool, 
and  keep  watch  over  it  If  we  get  a  bite,  so 
much  the  better,  if  not ' 

Shubin  put  out  his  tongue. 

*  Stop,  stop,'  said  Bensenyev,  *  that 's  a  para- 
dox. If  you  have  no  sympathy  for  beauty,  if 
you  do  not  love  beauty  wherever  you  meet  it, 
it  will  not  come  to  you  even  in  your  art.  If  a 
beautiful  view,  if  beautiful  music  does  not  touch 
your  heart ;  I  mean,  if  you  are  not  sym- 
pathetic  * 

*Ah,  you  are  a  confirmed  sympathetic!* 
broke  in  Shubin,  laugliing  at  the  new  title  he 
had  coined,  while  Bersenyev  sank  into  thought. 

*  No,  my  dear  fellow,'  Shubin  went  on, 
'you're  a  clever  person,  a  philosopher,  third 
graduate  of  the  Moscow  University  ;  it 's  dread- 

5 


ON   THE  EVE 

ful  arguing  with  you,  especially  for  an  ignor- 
amus like  me,  but  I  tell  you  what  ;  besides  my 
art,  the  only  beauty  I  love  is  in  women  ...  in 
girls,  and  even  that 's  recently.' 

He  turned  over  on  to  his  back  and  clasped 
his  hands  behind  his  head. 

A  few  instants  passed  by  in  silence.  The 
hush  of  the  noonday  heat  lay  upon  the  drowsy, 
blazing  fields. 

'  Speaking  of  women,'  Shubin  began  again, 
'  how  is  it  no  one  looks  after  Stahov  ?  Did  you 
see  him  in  Moscow?' 

'No.' 

*  The  old  fellow 's  gone  clean  off  his  head. 
He  sits  for  whole  days  together  at  his  Augus- 
tina  Christianovna's,  he's  bored  to  death,  but 
still  he  sits  there.  They  gaze  at  one  another  so 
stupidly.  ...  It's  positively  disgusting  to  see 
them.  Man 's  a  strange  animal.  A  man  with 
such  a  home  ;  but  no,  he  must  have  his  Augus- 
tina  Christianovna!  I  don't  know  anything 
more  repulsive  than  her  face,  just  like  a  duck's ! 
The  other  day  I  modelled  a  caricature  of  her  in 
the  style  of  Dantan.  It  wasn't  half  bad.  I 
will  show  it  you.' 

'And  Elena  Nikolaevna's  bust,'  inquired 
Bersenyev,  '  is  it  getting  on  ?' 

*  No,  my  dear  boy,  it 's  not  getting  on.  That 
face  is  enough  to  drive  one  to  despair.      The 

6 


ON  THE  EVE 

lines  are  pure,  severe,  correct ;  one  would  think 
there  would  be  no  difficulty  in  catching  a  like- 
ness. It 's  not  as  easy  as  one  would  think 
though.  It's  like  a  treasure  in  a  fairy-tale — 
you  can't  get  hold  of  it.  Have  you  ever  ^ 
noticed  how  she  listens?  There's  not  a  single  \J 
feature  different,  but  the  whole  expression  of 
the  eyes  is  constantly  changing,  and  with  that 
the  whole  face  changes.  What  is  a  sculptor — 
and  a  poor  one  too — to  do  with  such  a  face? 
She 's  a  wonderful  creature — a  strange  creature,' 
he  added  after  a  brief  pause. 

*  Yes  ;  she  is  a  wonderful  girl,'  Bersenyev  re- 
peated after  him. 

*  And  she  the  daughter  of  Nikolai  Artem- 
yevitch   Stahovl     And   after  that  people  talk 
about  blood,  about  stock  !      The  amusing  part 
of  it  is  that  she  really  is  his  daughter,  like  him, 
as  well  as  like  her  mother,  Anna  Vassilyevna. 
I  respect  Anna  Vassilyevna  from  the  depths  of     I 
my  heart,  she's  been  awfully  good  to  me;   but     / 
she 's  no  better  than  a  hen.     Where  did  Elena  ^i 
get  that  soul  of  hers?     Who  kindled  that  fire  f 
in   her  ?      There 's   another   problem    for   you, 
philosopher ! ' 

But  as  before,  the   *  philosopher'  made   no 

reply.     Bersenyev  did  not  in  general  err  on  the 

side  of  talkativeness,  and  when  he  did  speak, 

he  expressed  himself  awkwardly,  with  hesita- 

7 


ON  THE  EVE 

tion,  and  unnecessary  gesticulation.  And  at 
this  time  a  kind  of  special  stillness  had  fallen 
on  his  soul,  a  stillness  akin  to  lassitude  and 
melancholy.  He  had  not  long  come  from 
town  after  prolonged  hard  work,  which  had  ab- 
sorbed him  for  many  hours  every  day.  The 
inactivity,  the  softness  and  purity  of  the  air, 
the  consciousness  of  having  attained  his  object, 
the  whimsical  and  careless  talk  of  his  friend, 
and  the  image — so  suddenly  called  up — of  one 
dear  to  him,  all  these  impressions  different — yet 
at  the  same  time  in  a  way  akin — were  mingled 
in  him  into  a  single  vague  emotion,  which  at 
j  once  soothed  and  excited  him,  and  robbed  him 
of  his  power.  He  was  a  very  highly  strung 
young  man. 

It  was  cool  and  peaceful  under  the  lime-tree; 
the  flies  and  bees  seemed  to  hum  more  softly  as 
they  flitted  within  its  circle  of  shade.  The 
fresh  fine  grass,  of  purest  emerald  green,  with- 
out a  tinge  of  gold,  did  not  quiver,  the  tall 
flower  stalks  stood  motionless,  as  though  en- 
chanted. On  the  lower  twigs  of  the  lime- 
tree  the  little  bunches  of  yellow  flowers  hung 
still  as  death.  At  every  breath  a  sweet  fra- 
grance made  its  way  to  the  very  depths  of 
the  lungs,  and  eagerly  the  lungs  inhaled  it 
Beyond  the  river  in  the  distance,  right  up  to  the 
horizon,  all  was  bright  and  glowing.      At  times 

8 


ON   THE   EVE 

a  slight  breeze  passed  over,  breaking  up  the 
landscape  and  intensifying  the  brightness ; 
a  sunlit  vapour  hung  over  the  fields.  No 
sound  came  from  the  birds ;  they  do  not 
sing  in  the  heat  of  noonday  ;  but  the  grass- 
hoppers were  chirping  everywhere,  and  it  was 
pleasant  as  they  sat  in  the  cool  and  quietness, 
to  hear  that  hot,  eager  sound  of  life  ;  it  dis- 
posed to  slumber  and  inclined  the  heart  to 
reveries. 

'  Have  you  noticed,'  began  Bersenyev,  eking 
out  his  words  with  gesticulations,  'what  a  strange 
feeling  nature  produces  in  us  ?  Everything  in 
nature  is  so  complete,  so  defined,  I  mean  to  say, 
so  content  with  itself,  and  we  understand  that 
and  rdmire  it,  and  at  the  same  time,  in  me  at 
least,  it  always  excites  a  kind  of  restlessness,  a 
kind  of  uneasiness,  even  melancholy.  What  is 
the  meaning  of  it?  Is  it  that  in  the  face  of 
nature  we  are  more  vividly  conscious  of  all  our 
incompleteness,  our  indefiniteness,  or  'have  we 
little  of  that  content  with  which  nature  is  satis- 
fied, but  something  else — I  mean  to  say,  what 
we  need,  nature  has  not  ?* 

*  H'm,'  replied  Shubin,  *  I  '11  tell  you,  Andrei 
Petrovitch,  what  all  that  comes  from.  You  de- 
scribe the  sensations  of  a  solitary  man,  who  is 
not  living  but  only  looking  on  in  ecstasy.  Why 
look  on?  Live,  yourself,  and  you  will  be  all 
9 


ON  THE  EVE 

right.  However  much  you  knock  at  nature's 
door,  she  will  never  answer  you  in  compre- 
hensible words,  because  she  is  dumb.  She  will 
utter  a  musical  sound,  or  a  moan,  like  a  harp 
string,  but  don't  expect  a  song  from  her.  A 
living  heart,  now — that  will  give  you  your  answet 
— especially  a  woman's  heart.  So,  my  dear 
fellow,  I  advise  you  to  get  yourself  some  one  to 
share  your  heart,  and  all  your  distressing  sensa- 
tions will  vanish  at  once.  That's  what  we 
need,"  as  you  say.  This  agitation,  and  melan- 
choly, all  that,  you  know,  is  simply  a  hunger  of 
a  kind.  Give  the  stomach  some  real  food,  and 
everything  will  be  right  directly.  Take  your 
place  in  the  landscape,  live  in  the  body,  my 
dear  boy.  x\nd  after  all,  what  is  nature  ?  what 's 
the  use  of  it  ?  Only  hear  the  word,  love — 
what  an  intense,  glowing  sound  it  has  !  Nature 
— what  a  cold,  pedantic  expression.  And  so* 
(Shubin  began  humming),  *  my  greetings  to 
Marya  Petrovna  !  or  rather,'  he  added,  '  not 
Marya  Petrovna,  but  it 's  all  the  same  !  Voo  me 
compreny! 

Bersenyev  got  up  and  stood  with  his  chin 
leaning  on  his  clasped  hands.  *  What  is  there 
to  laugh  at?'  he  said,  without  looking  at  his 
companion,  *  why  should  you  scoff?  Yes,  you 
are  right :  love  is  a  grand  word,  a  grand  feeling. 
,  .  ,  But  what  sort  of  love  do  you  mean  ?  ' 

lO 


ON  THE  EVE 

Shubin  too,  got  up.  'What  sort?  What 
you  like,  so  long  as  it 's  there.  I  will  confess  to 
you  that  I  don't  believe  in  the  existence  of 
different  kinds  of  love.      If  you  are  in  love ' 

'  With  your  whole  heart,'  put  in  Bersenyev. 

*  Well,  of  course,  that 's  an  understood  thing  ;  j  f 
the  heart 's  not  an  apple  ;  you  can't  divide  it.  If 
you're  in  love,  you're  justified.  And  I  wasn't 
thinking  of  scoffing.  My  heart  *s  as  soft  at  this 
moment  as  if  it  had  been  melted.  ...  I  only 
wanted  to  explain  why  nature  has  the  effect  on 
us  you  spoke  of.  It 's  because  she  arouses  in  us 
a  need  for  love,  and  is  not  capable  of  satisfying 
it.  Nature  is  gently  driving  us  to  other  living 
embraces,  but  we  don't  understand,  and  expect 
something  from  nature  herself.  Ah,  Andrei, 
Andrei,  this  sun,  this  sky  is  beautiful,  every- 
thing around  us  is  beautiful,  still  you  are 
sad ;  but  if,  at  this  instant,  you  were  holding 
the  hand  of  a  woman  you  loved,  if  that  hand 
and  the  whole  woman  were  yours,  if  you  were 
even  seeing  with  her  eyes,  feeling  not  your  own 
isolated  emotion,  but  her  emotion  —  nature 
would  not  make  you  melancholy  or  restless 
then,  and  you  would  not  be  observing  nature's 
beauty  ;  nature  herself  would  be  full  of  joy  and 
praise  ;  she  would  be  re-echoing  your  hymn, 
because  then  you  would  have  given  her — dumb 
nature — speech  ! ' 

II 


ON   THE  EVE 

Shubin  leaped  on  to  his  feet  and  walked  twice 
up  and  down,  but  Bersenyev  bent  his  head, 
and  his  face  was  overcast  by  a  faint  flush. 

*  I  don't  altogether  agree  with  you,'  he  began: 
*  nature  does  not  always  urge  us  .  .  .  towards 
love.'  (He  could  not  at  once  pronounce  the 
word.)  *  Nature  threatens  us,  too  ;  she  reminds 
us  of  dreadful  .  .  .  yes,  insoluble  mysteries.  Is 
she  not  destined  to  swallow  us  up,  is  she  not 
swallowing  us  up  unceasingly  ?  She  holds  life 
and  death  as  well ;  and  death  speaks  in  her  as 
loudly  as  life.' 

*  In  love,  too,  there  is  both  life  and  death,' 
interposed  Shubin. 

*  And  then,'  Bersenyev  went  on  :  *  when  I,  for 
example,  stand  in  the  spring  in  the  forest,  in  a 
green  glade,  when  I  can  fancy  the  romantic 
notes  of  Oberon's  fairy  horn  '  (Bersenyev  was  a 
little  ashamed  when  he  had  spoken  these  words) 
— *  is  that,  too ' 

*  The  thirst  for  love,  the  thirst  for  happiness, 
nothing  more ! '  broke  in  Shubin.  '  I,  too, 
know  those  notes,  I  know  the  languor  and  the 
expectation  which  come  upon  the  soul  in  the 
forest's  shade,  in  its  deep  recesses,  or  at  evening 
in  the  open  fields  when  the  stm  sets  and  the 
river  mist  rises  behind  the  bushes.  But  forest, 
and  river,  and  fields,  and  sky,  every  cloud  and 
every  blade  of  grass  sets  "me  expecting,  hoping 

12 


ON   THE   EVE 

for  happiness,  I  feel  the  approach,  I  hear  the 
voice  of  happiness  calling  in  everything.  "  God 
of  my  worship,  bright  and  gay !  '*  That  was 
how  I  tried  to  begin  my  sole  poem ;  you  must 
own  it 's  a  splendid  first  line,  but  I  could  never 
produce  a  second.  Happiness  !  happiness !  as 
long  as  life  is  not  over,  as  long  as  we  have  the 
use  of  all  our  limbs,  as  long  as  we  are  going  up, 
not  down,  hill !  Damn  it  all ! '  pursued  Shubin 
with  sudden  vehemence,  *  we  are  young,  and 
neither  fools  nor  monsters ;  we  will  conquer 
happiness  for  ourselves  ! ' 

He  shook  his  curls,  and  turned  a  confident 
almost  challenging  glance  upwards  to  the  sky. 
Bersenyev  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  at  him. 

*  Is  there  nothing  higher  than  happiness  ? '  he 
commented  softly. 

*  And  what,  for  instance  ? '  asked  Shubin, 
stopping  sli^rt. 

*  Why,  for  instance,  you  and  I  are,  as  you  say, 
young  ;  we  are  good  men,  let  us  suppose  ;  each 
of  us  desires  happiness  for  himself.  .  .  .  But  is 
that  word,  happiness,  one  that  could  unite  us,  set 
us  both  on  fire,  and  make  us  clasp  each  other's 
hands?  Isn't  that  word  an  egoistic  one;  I 
mean,  isn't  it  a  source  of  disunion  ?  * 

*  Do  you  know  words,  then,  that  unite  men  ? ' 

*  Yes  ;  and  they  are  not  few  in  number  ;  and 
you  know  them,  too.' 


ON  THE  EVE 

•Eh?    What  words?' 

*  Well,  even  Art — since  you  are  an  artist — 
Country,  Science,  Freedom,  Justice.' 

*  And  what  of  love  ? '  asked  Shubin. 

*  Love,  too,  is  a  word  that  unites  ;  but  not  the 
love  you  are  eager  for  now ;  the  love  which  is 
not  enjoyment,  the  love  which  is  self-sacrifice.* 

Shubin  frowned. 

*  That 's  all  very  well  for  Germans  ;  I  want  to 
love  for  myself ;  I  want  to  be  first* 

'  To  be  first,'  repeated  Bersenyev.  *  But  it 
seems  to  me  that  to  put  one's-self  in  the  second 
place  is  the  whole  significance  of  our  life.' 

*  If  all  men  were  to  act  as  you  advise,'  com- 
mented Shubin  with  a  plaintive  expression, 
*  none  on  earth  would  eat  pine-apples ;  every  one 
would  be  offering  them  to  other  people.' 

*  That 's  as  much  as  to  say,  pine-apples  are  not 
necessary  ;  but  you  need  not  be  alarmed  ;  there 
will  always  be  plenty  of  people  who  like  them 
enough  to  take  the  bread  out  of  other  men's 
mouths  to  get  them.' 

Both  friends  were  silent  a  little. 

*I  met  Insarov  again  the  other  day,'  began 
Bersenyev.  *  I  invited  him  to  stay  with  me  ;  I 
really  must  introduce  him  to  you — and  to  the 
Stahovs.' 

*  Who  is  Insarov  ?  Ah,  to  be  sure,  isn't  it 
that  Servian  or  Bulgarian  you  were  telling  me 

14 


ON   THE   EVE 

about  ?    The  patriot  ?    Now  isn't  it  he  who  *s  at 
the  bottom  of  all  these  philosophical  ideas?' 
Perhaps.' 

*  Is  he  an  exceptional  individual  ? ' 

*  Yes.' 

*  Clever?    Talented?' 

'Clever  —  talented  —  I  don't  know,  I  don't 
think  so.' 

*  Not  ?  Then,  what  is  there  remarkable  in 
him  ?' 

*  You  shall  see.  But  now  I  think  it 's  time  to 
be  going.  Anna  Vassilyevna  will  be  waiting 
for  us,  very  likely.    What 's  the  time  ? ' 

*  Three  o'clock.  Let  us  go.  How  baking  it 
is !  This  conversation  has  set  all  my  blood 
aflame.  There  was  a  moment  when  you,  too, 
...  I  am  not  an  artist  for  nothing  ;  I  observe 
everything.  Confess,  you  are  interested  in  a 
woman  ? ' 

Shubin  tried  to  get  a  look  at  Bersenyev's 
face,  but  he  turned  away  and  walked  out  of 
the  lime-tree's  shade.  Shubin  went  after  him, 
moving  his  little  feet  with  easy  grace.  Bersen- 
yev  walked  clumsily,  with  his  shoulders  high 
and  his  neck  craned  forward.  Yet,  he  looked  a 
man  of  finer  breeding  than  Shubin  ;  more  of  a 
gentleman,  one  might  saj'-,  if  that  word  had  not 
been  so  vulgarised  among  us. 


IS 


II 

The  young  men  went  down  to  the  river  Moskva 
and  walked  along  its  bank.  There  was  a  breath 
of  freshness  from  the  water,  and  the  soft  plash 
of  tiny  waves  caressed  the  ear. 

*I  would  have  another  bathe,'  said  Shubin, 
'only  I'm  afraid  of  being  late.  Look  at  the 
river ;  it  seems  to  beckon  us.  The  ancient 
Greeks  would  have  beheld  a  nymph  in  it.  But 
we  are  not  Greeks,  O  nymph !  we  are  thick- 
skinned  Scythians.* 

*We  have  roussalkasl  observed  Bersenyev. 

*  Get  along  with  your  roussalkas !  What 's 
the  use  to  me — a  sculptor — of  those  children  of 
a  cold,  terror-stricken  fancy,  those  shapes  be- 
gotten in  the  stifling  hut,  in  the  dark  of  winter 
nights?  I  want  light,  space.  .  .  .  Good  God, 
when  shall  I  go  to  Italy  ?     When ' 

*To  Little  Russia,  I  suppose  you  mean  ?* 

*  For  shame,  Andrei  Petrovitch,  to  reproach 
me  for  an  act  of  unpremeditated  folly,  which  I 
have  repented   bitterly   enough   without  that 

i6 


ON  THE  EVE 

Oh,  of  course,  I  behaved  like  a  fool ;  Anna 
Vassilyevna  most  kindly  gave  me  the  money 
for  an  expedition  to  Italy,  and  I  went  off  to 

the  Little  Russians  to  eat  dumplings  and ' 

'  Don't  let  me  have  the  rest,  please,'  interposed 
Bersenyev. 

*  Yet  still,  I  will  say,  the  money  was  not  spent 
in  vain.  I  saw  there  such  types,  especially  of 
women.  ...  Of  course,  I  know ;  there  is  no 
salvation  to  be  found  outside  of  Italy ! ' 

'You  will  go  to  Italy,'  said  Bersenyev,  with- 
out turning  towards  him,  '  and  will  do  nothing. 
You  will  always  be  pluming  your  wings  and 
never  take  flight.     We  know  you  ! ' 

'Stavasser  has  taken  flight.  .  .  .  And  he's 
not  the  only  one.  If  I  don't  fly,  it  will  prove 
that  I  'm  a  sea  penguin,  and  have  no  wings. 
I  'm  stifled  here,  I  want  to  be  in  Italy,'  pursued 
Shubin,  *  there  is  sunshine,  there  is  beauty.' 

A  young  girl  in  a  large  straw  hat,  with  a  pink 
parasol  on  her  shoulder,  came  into  sight  at  that 
instant,  in  the  little  path  along  which  the  friends 
were  walking. 

*  But  what  do  I  see  ?  Even  here,  there  is 
beauty — coming  to  meet  us  !  A  humble  artist's 
compliments  to  the  enchanting  Zoya  ! '  Shubin 
cried  at  once,  with  a  theatrical  flourish  of  his 
hat. 

The  young  girl  to  whom  this  exclamation  re- 

17  B 


ON   THE  EVE 

ferred,  stopped,  threatening  him  with  her  finger, 
and,  waiting  for  the  two  friends  to  come  up  to 
her,  she  said  in  a  ringing  voice : 

*  Why  is  it,  gentlemen,  you  don't  come  in  to 
dinner  ?  It  is  on  the  table.' 

*  What  do  I  hear  ? '  said  Shubin,  throwing  his 
arms  up.  'Can  it  be  that  you,  bewitching 
Zoya,  faced  such  heat  to  come  and  look  for 
us  ?  Dare  I  think  that  is  the  meaning  of  your 
words  ?  Tell  me,  can  it  be  so  ?  Or  no,  do  not 
utter  that  word ;  I  shall  die  of  regret  on  the 
spot* 

*  Oh,  do  leave  off,  Pavel  Yakovlitch,'  replied 
the  young  girl  with  some  annoyance.  *  Why 
will  you  never  talk  to  me  seriously  ?  I  shall  be 
angry,'  she  added  with  a  little  coquettish 
grimace,  and  she  pouted. 

*  You  will  not  be  angry  with  me,  ideal  Zoya 
Nikitishna  ;  you  would  not  drive  me  to  the 
dark  depths  of  hopeless  despair.  And  I  can't 
talk  to  you  seriously,  because  I  'm  not  a  serious 
person.' 

The  young  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and 
turned  to  Bersenyev. 

'  There,  he 's  always  like  that ;  he  treats  me 
like  a  child  ;  and  I  am  eighteen.  I  am  grown- 
up now.' 

*0  Lord!'  groaned  Shubin,  rolling  his  eyes 
upwards  ;  and  Bersenyev  smiled  quietly. 
i8 


ON   THE  EVE 

The  girl  stamped  with  her  little  foot 

*  Pavel  Yakovlitch,  I  shall  be  angry  !  HHene 
was  coming  with  me/  she  went  on,  *  but  she 
stopped  in  the  garden.  The  heat  frightened  her, 
but  I  am  not  afraid  of  the  heat.     Come  along.' 

She  moved  forward  along  the  path,  slightly 
swaying  her  slender  figure  at  each  step,  and 
with  a  pretty  black-mittened  little  hand  push- 
ing her  long  soft  curls  back  from  her  face. 

The  friends  walked  after  her  (Shubin  first 
pressed  his  hands,  without  speaking,  to  his 
heart,  and  then  flung  them  higher  than  his  head), 
and  in  a  few  instants  they  came  out  in  front  of 
one  of  the  numerous  country  villas  with  which 
Kuntsovo  is  surrounded.  A  small  wooden  house 
with  a  gable,  painted  a  pink  colour,  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  garden,  and  seemed  to  be  peeping 
out  innocently  from  behind  the  green  trees. 
Zoya  was  the  first  to  open  the  gate  ;  she  ran 
into  the  garden,  crying :  *  I  have  brought  the 
wanderers  ! '  A  young  girl,  with  a  pale  and  ex- 
pressive face,  rose  from  a  garden  bench  near  the 
little  path,  and  in  the  doorway  of  the  house 
appeared  a  lady  in  a  lilac  silk  dress,  holding  an 
embroidered  cambric  handkerchief  over  her  head 
to  screen  it  from  the  sun,  and  smiling  with  a 
weary  and  listless  air. 


19 


Ill 


Anna  Vassilyevna  Stahov — her  maiden 
name  was  Shubin — had  been  left,  at  seven  years 
old,  an  orphan  and  heiress  of  a  pretty  consider- 
able property.  She  had  very  rich  and  also  very 
poor  relations ;  the  poor  relations  were  on  her 
father's,  the  rich  on  her  mother's  side;  the 
latter  including  the  senator  Volgin  and  the 
Princes  Tchikurasov.  Prince  Ardalion  Tchiku- 
rasov,  who  had  been  appointed  her  guardian, 
placed  her  in  the  best  Moscow  boarding-school, 
and  when  she  left  school,  took  her  into  his  own 
home.  He  kept  open  house,  and  gave  balls 
in  the  winter.  Anna  Vassilyevna's  future  hus- 
band, Nikolai  Artemyevitch  Stahov,  captured 
her  heart  at  one  of  these  balls  when  she  was 
arrayed  in  a  charming  rose-coloured  gown,  with 
a  wreath  of  tiny  roses.  She  had  treasured  that 
wreath  all  her  life.  Nikolai  Artemyevitch 
Stahov  was  the  son  of  a  retired  captain,  who 
had  been  wounded  in  1812,  and  had  received  a 
lucrative  post  in  Petersburg.  Nikolai  Artem- 
20 


ON   THE  EVE 

yevitch  entered  the  School  of  Cadets  at  sixteen, 
and  left  to  go  into  the  Guards.  He  was  a  hand- 
some, well-made  fellow,  and  reckoned  almost 
the  most  dashing  beau  at  evening  parties  of 
the  middling  sort,  which  were  those  he  fre- 
quented for  the  most  part ;  he  had  not  gained 
a  footing  in  the  best  society.  From  his  youth 
he  had  been  absorbed  by  two  ideals :  to  get 
into  the  Imperial  adjutants,  and  to  make  a  good 
marriage  ;  the  first  ideal  he  soon  discarded,  but 
he  clung  all  the  more  closely  to  the  second,  and 
it  was  with  that  object  that  he  went  every  winter 
to  Moscow.  Nikolai  Artemyevitch  spoke 
French  fairly,  and  passed  for  being  a  philoso- 
pher, because  he  was  not  a  rake.  Even  while 
he  was  no  more  than  an  ensign,  he  was  given 
to  discussing,  persistently,  such  questions  as 
whether  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  visit  the 
whole  of  the  globe  in  the  course  of  his  whole 
lifetime,  whether  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to 
know  what  is  happening  at  the  bottom  of  the 
sea  ;  and  he  always  maintained  the  view  that 
these  things  were  impossible. 

Nikolai  Artemyevitch  was  twenty-five  years 
old  when  he  *  hooked '  Anna  Vassilyevna ;  he 
retired  from  the  service  and  went  into  the 
country  to  manage  the  property.  He  was  soon 
tired  of  country  life,  and  as  the  peasants' 
labour   was   all   commuted  for  rent  he   could 

21 


ON   THE  EVE 

easily  leave  the  estate ;  he  settled  in  Moscow  in 
his  wife's  house.  In  his  youth  he  had  played 
no  games  of  any  kind,  but  now  he  developed  a 
passion  for  loto,  and,  when  loto  was  prohibited, 
for  whist.  At  home  he  was  bored  ;  he  formed 
a  connection  with  a  widow  of  German  extrac- 
tion, and  spent  almost  all  his  time  with  her. 
In  the  year  1853  he  had  not  moved  to  Kuntsovo; 
he  stopped  at  Moscow,  ostensibly  to  take 
advantage  of  the  mineral  waters;  in  reality, 
he  did  not  want  to  part  from  his  widow.  He 
did  not,  however,  have  much  conversation  with 
her,  but  argued  more  than  ever  as  to  whether 
one  can  foretell  the  weather  and  such  questions. 
Some  one  had  once  called  him  a  fro7ideur ;  he 
was  greatly  delighted  with  that  name.  '  Yes,'  he 
thought,  letting  the  corners  of  his  mouth  drop 
complacently  and  shaking  his  head,  *  1  am  not 
easily  satisfied  ;  you  won't  take  me  in.'  Nikolai 
Artemyevitch's/;''6>//(^^?^mw  consisted  in  saying, 
for  instance,  when  he  heard  the  word  nerves: 
*  And  what  do  you  mean  by  nerves  ? '  or  if  some 
one  alluded  in  his  presence  to  the  discoveries  of 
astronomy,  asking :  *  And  do  you  believe  in 
astronomy?*  When  he  wanted  to  overwhelm 
his  opponent  completely,  he  said  :  '  All  that  is 
nothing  but  words.*  It  must  be  admitted  that 
to  many  persons  remarks  of  that  kind  seemed 
(and  still  seem)  irrefutable  arguments.  But 
22 


ON   THE  EVE 

Nikolai  Artemyevitch  never  suspected  that 
Augustina  Christianovna,  in  letters  to  her 
cousin,  Theodolina  Peterzelius,  called  him  Mein 
Pinselchen. 

Nikolai  Artemyevitch's  wife,  Anna  Vas- 
siiyevna,  was  a  thin,  little  woman  with  delicate 
features,  and  a  tendency  to  be  emotional  and 
melancholy.  At  school,  she  had  devoted  herself 
to  music  and  reading  novels  ;  afterwards  she 
abandoned  all  that.  She  began  to  be  absorbed 
in  dress,  and  that,  too,  she  gave  up.  She  did, 
for  a  time,  undertake  her  daughter's  education, 
but  she  got  tired  of  that  too,  and  handed  her 
over  to  a  governess.  She  ended  by  spending 
her  whole  time  in  sentimental  brooding  and 
tender  melancholy.  The  birth  of  Elena  Niko- 
laevna  had  ruined  her  health,  and  she  could 
never  have  another  child.  Nikolai  Artem- 
yevitch used  to  hint  at  this  fact  in  justifica- 
tion of  his  intimacy  with  Augustina  Chris- 
tianovna. Her  husband's  infidelity  wounded 
Anna  Vassilyevna  deeply ;  she  had  been 
specially  hurt  by  his  once  giving  his  German 
woman,  on  the  sly,  a  pair  of  grey  horses 
out  of  her  (Anna  Vassilyevna's)  own  stable. 
She  had  never  reproached  him  to  his  face, 
but  she  complained  of  him  secretly  to  every 
one  in  the  house  in  turn,  even  to  her  daughter. 
Anna  Vassilyevna  did  not  care  for  going  out, 

23 


ON   THE  EVE 

she  liked  visitors  to  come  and  sit  with  her  and 
talk  to  her ;  she  collapsed  at  once  when  she 
was  left  alone.  She  had  a  very  tender  and 
loving  heart ;  life  had  soon  crushed  her. 

Pavel 'Yakovlitch  Shubin  happened  to  be  a 
distant  cousin  of  hers.  His  father  had  been  a 
government  official  in  Moscow.  His  brothers 
had  entered  cadets'  corps  ;  he  was  the  youngest, 
his  mother's  darling,  and  of  delicate  constitu- 
tion ;  he  stopped  at  home.  They  intended  him 
for  the  university,  and  strained  every  effort  to 
keep  him  at  the  gymnasium.  From  his  early 
years  he  began  to  show  an  inclination  for  sculp- 
ture. The  ponderous  senator,  Volgin,  saw  a 
statuette  of  his  one  day  at  his  aunt's — he  was 
then  sixteen — and  declared  that  he  intended  to 
protect  this  youthful  genius.  The  sudden  death 
of  Shubin's  father  very  nearly  effected  a  com- 
plete transformation  in  the  young  man's  future. 
The  senator,  the  patron  of  genius,  made  him  a 
present  of  a  bust  of  Homer  in  plaster,  and  did 
nothing  more.  But  Anna  Vassilyevna  helped 
him  with  money,  and  at  nineteen  he  scraped 
through  into  the  university  in  the  faculty  of 
medicine.  Pavel  felt  no  inclination  for  medical 
science,  but,  as  the  university  was  then  consti* 
tuted,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  enter  in  any 
other  faculty.  Besides,  he  looked  forward  to 
studying  anatomy.  But  he  did  not  complete 
24 


ON   THE   EVE 

his  anatomical  studies  ;  at  the  end  of  the  first 
year,  and  before  the  examination,  he  left  the 
university  to  devote  himself  exclusively  to  his 
vocation.  He  worked  zealously,  but  by  fits  and 
starts ;  he  used  to  stroll  about  the  country 
round  Moscow  sketching  and  modelling  por- 
traits of  peasant  girls,  and  striking  up  acquain- 
tance with  all  sorts  of  people,  young  and  old,  of 
high  and  low  degree,  Italian  models  and  Russian 
artists.  He  would  not  hear  of  the  Academy,  and 
recognised  no  one  as  a  teacher.  He  was  pos- 
sessed of  unmistakeable  talent ;  it  began  to  be 
talked  about  in  Moscow.  His  mother,  who  came 
of  a  good  Parisian  family,  a  kind-hearted  and 
clever  woman, had  taught  him  French  thoroughly 
and  had  toiled  and  thought  for  him  day  and 
night.  She  was  proud  of  him,  and  when,  while 
still  young  in  years,  she  died  of  consumption, 
she  entreated  Anna  Vassilyevna  to  take  him 
under  her  care.  He  was  at  that  time  twenty- 
one.  Anna  Vassilyevna  carried  out  her  last 
wish  ;  a  small  room  in  the  lodge  of  the  country 
villa  was  given  up  to  him. 


^S 


IV 

*COME  to  dinner,  conne  along/  said  the  lady 
of  the  house  in  a  plaintive  voice,  and  they  all 
went  into  the  dining-room.  'Sit  beside  me, 
Zof^  added  Anna  Vassilyevna,  'and  you, 
Hdene,  take  our  guest ;  and  you,  Paul^  please 
don't  be  naughty  and  tease  Z<?/.  My  head 
aches  to-day.' 

Shubin  again  turned  his  eyes  up  to  the 
ceiling;  Zo6  responded  with  a  half-smile. 
This  Zo^,  or,  to  speak  more  precisely,  Zoya 
Nikitishna  Miiller,  was  a  pretty,  fair-haired, 
half.  Russian  German  girl,  with  a  little  nose 
rather  wide  at  the  end,  and  tiny  red  lips. 
She  sang  Russian  ballads  fairly  well  and 
could  play  various  pieces,  both  lively  and 
sentimental,  very  correctly  on  the  piano.  She 
dressed  with  taste,  but  in  a  rather  childish 
style,  and  even  over-precisely.  Anna  Vas- 
silyevna had  taken  her  as  a  companion  for  her 
daughter,  and  she  kept  her  almost  constantly  at 
her  side.  Elena  did  not  complain  of  that ;  she  was 
26 


ON  THE  EVE 

absolutely  at  a  loss  what  to  say  to  Zoya  when 
she  happened  to  be  left  alone  with  her. 

The  dinner  lasted  rather  a  long  time ;  Ber- 
senyev  talked  with  Elena  about  university  life, 
and  his  own  plans  and  hopes  ;  Shubin  listened 
without  speaking,  ate  with  an  exaggerated  show 
of  greediness,  and  now  and  then  threw  comic 
glances  of  despair  at  Zoya,  who  responded 
always  with  the  same  phlegmatic  smile.  After 
dinner,  Elena  with  Bersenyev  and  Shubin  went 
into  the  garden  ;  Zoya  looked  after  them,  and, 
with  a  slight  shrug  of  her  shoulders,  sat  down 
to  the  piano.  Anna  Vassilyevna  began  :  '  Why 
don't  you  go  for  a  walk,  too  ?  *  but,  without 
waiting  for  a  reply,  she  added  :  *  Play  me  some- 
thing melancholy.' 

^  La  derniere  peftsh  de  Weberf^  suggested 
Zoya. 

*  Ah,  yes,  Weber,'  replied  Anna  Vassilyevna. 
She  sank  into  an  easy  chair,  and  the  tears 
started  on  to  her  eyelashes. 

Meanwhile,  Elena  led  the  two  friends  to  an 
arbour  of  acacias,  with  a  little  wooden  table  in 
the  middle,  and  seats  round.  Shubin  looked 
round,  and,  whispering  *  Wait  a  minute  ! '  he  ran 
ofif,  skipping  and  hopping  to  his  own  room, 
brought  back  a  piece  of  clay,  and  began 
modelling  a  bust  of  Zoya,  shaking  his  head  and 
muttering  and  laughii.g  to  hinibelt 

27 


ON   THE  EVE 

*  At  his  old  tricks  again,'  observed  Elena, 
glancing  at  his  work.  She  turned  to  Bersenyev, 
with  whom  she  was  continuing  the  conversation 
begun  at  dinner. 

*  My  old  tricks ! '  repeated  Shubin.  *  It 's  a 
subject  that 's  simply  inexhaustible  !  To-day, 
particularly,  she  drove  me  out  of  all  patience.' 

'Why  so?'  inquired  Elena.  'One  would 
think  you  were  speaking  of  some  spiteful,  dis- 
agreeable old  woman.  She  is  a  pretty  young 
girl.' 

'  Of  course,'  Shubin  broke  in,  *  she  is  pretty, 
very  pretty  ;  I  am  sure  that  no  one  who  meets 
her  could  fail  to  think  :  that 's  some  one  I  should 
like  to — dance  a  polka  with ;  I  'm  sure,  too, 
that  she  knows  that,  and  is  pleased.  .  .  .  Else, 
what's  the  meaning  of  those  modest  simpers, 
that  discreet  air?  There,  you  know  what  I 
mean,'  he  muttered  between  his  teeth.  *  But 
now  you  're  absorbed  in  something  else.' 

And  breaking  up  the  bust  of  Zoya,  Shubin 
set  hastily  to  modelling  and  kneading  the  clay 
again  with  an  air  of  vexation. 

'  So  it  is  your  wish  to  be  a  professor?'  said 
Elena  to  Bersenyev. 

'Yes,'  he  answered,  squeezing  his  red  hands 
between  his  knees.  '  That 's  my  cherished 
dream.  Of  course  I  know  very  well  how  far  I 
fall  short  of  being — to  be  worthy  of  such  a  high 

7H 


ON   THE  EVE 

—I  mean  that  I  am  too  little  prepared,  but  I 
hope  to  get  permission  for  a  course  of  travel 
abroad  ;  I  shall  pass  three  or  four  years  in  that 
way,  if  necessary,  and  then ' 

He  stopped,  dropped  his  eyes,  then  quickly 
raising  tiiem  again,  he  gave  an  embarrassed 
smile  and  smoothed  his  hair.  When  Bersenyev 
was  talking  to  a  woman,  his  words  came 
out  more  slowly,  and  he  lisped  more  than 
ever. 

'You  want  to  be  a  professor  of  history?* 
inquired  Elena. 

'Yes,  or  of  philosophy,'  he  added,  in  a  lower 
voice — *  if  that  is  possible.' 

'  He  's  a  perfect  devil  at  philosophy  already,* 
observed  Shubin,  making  deep  lines  in  the  clay 
with  his  nail.  '  What  does  he  want  to  go  abroad 
for?' 

*  And  will  you  be  perfectly  contented  with 
such  a  position  ?  '  asked  Elena,  leaning  on  her 
elbow  and  looking  him  straight  in  the  face. 

*  Perfectly,  Elena  Nikolaevna,  perfectly. 
What  could  be  a  finer  vocation  ?  To  follow, 
perhaps,  in  the  steps  of  Timofay  Nikolaevitch 
. .  .  The  very  thought  of  such  work  fills  me  with 
delight  and  confusion  .  .  .  yes,  confusion  .  .  . 
which  comes  from  a  sense  of  my  own  deficiency. 
My  dear  father  consecrated  me  to  this  work.  . , 
I  shall  never  forget  his  last  words.'  .  .  , 

29 


ON  THE  EVE 

'Your  father  died  last  winter?' 

*  Yes,  Elena  Nikolaevna,  in  February/ 
*They  say/  Elena  went  on,  'that  he  left  a 

remarkable  work  in  manuscript;  is  it  true?' 

*  Yes.  He  was  a  wonderful  man.  You  would 
have  loved  him,  Elena  Nikolaevna.' 

'  I  am  sure  I  should.  And  what  was  the 
subject  of  the  work  ? ' 

'  To  give  you  an  idea  of  the  subject  of  the 
work  in  few  words,  Elena  Nikolaevna,  would 
be  somewhat  difficult.  My  father  was  a  learned 
man,  a  Schellingist ;  he  used  terms  which  were 
not  always  very  clear ' 

*  Andrei  Petrovitch,'  interrupted  Elena,  *  ex- 
cuse my  ignorance,  what  does  that  mean,  a 
Schellingist  ?  * 

Bersenyev  smiled  slightly. 

*  A  Schellingist  means  a  follower  of  Schelling, 
a  German  philosopher ;  and  what  the  philo- 
sophy of  Schelling  consists  in ' 

'  Andrei  Petrovitch  ! '  cried  Shubin  suddenly, 
*  for  mercy's  sake !  Surely  you  don't  mean  to 
give  Elena  Nikolaevna  a  lecture  on  Schelling  ? 
Have  pity  on  her ! ' 

'  Not  a  lecture  at  all,'  murmured  Bersenyev, 
turning  crimson,  *  I  meant ' 

*  And  why  not  a  lecture  ? '  put  in  Elena. 
*You  and  I  are  in  need  of  lectures,  Pavel 
Yakovlitch,' 

30 


ON  THE  EVE 

Shubin  stared  at  her,  and  suddenly  burst  out 
laughing. 

*  What  are  you  laughing  at  ? '  she  said  coldly, 
and  almost  sharply. 

Shubin  did  not  answer. 

*  Come,  don't  be  angry,'  he  said,  after  a  short 
pause.  *  I  am  sorry.  But  really  it 's  a  strange 
taste,  upon  my  word,  to  discuss  philosophy  in 
weather  like  this  under  these  trees.  Let  us 
rather  talk  of  nightingales  and  roses,  youthful 
eyes  and  smiles.' 

*  Yes  ;  and  of  French  novels,  and  of  feminine 
frills  and  fal-lals,'  Elena  went  on. 

'  Fal-lals,  too,  of  course,'  rejoined  Shubin, '  if 
they  're  pretty.' 

*  Of  course.  But  suppose  we  don't  want  to 
talk  of  frills?  You  are  always  boasting  of 
being  a  free  artist ;  why  do  you  encroach  on 
the  freedom  of  others  ?  And  allow  me  to  in- 
quire, if  that 's  your  bent  of  mind,  why  do  you 
attack  Zoya  ?  With  her  it  would  be  peculiarly 
suitable  to  talk  of  frills  and  roses  ? ' 

Shubin  suddenly  fired  up,  and  rose  from  the 
garden  seat.  '  So  that 's  it  ?  '  he  began  in  a 
nervous  voice.  *  I  understand  your  hint  ;  you 
want  to  send  me  away  to  her,  Elena  Niko- 
laevna.     In  other  words,  I  'm  not  wanted  here.' 

*  I  never  thought  of  sending  you  away  from 
here.' 

31 


ON    THE   EVE 

*  Do  you  mean  to  say,'  Shubin  continued  pas- 
sionately, 'that  1  am  not  worthy  of  other 
society,  that  I  am  her  equal  ;  that  I  am  as 
vain,  and  silly  and  petty  as  that  mawkish 
German  girl  ?     Is  that  it  ? ' 

Elena  frowned.  *  You  did  not  always  speak 
like  that  of  her,  Pavel  Yakovlitch,'  she  remarked. 

*  Ah  !  reproaches  !  reproaches  now  ! '  cried 
Shubin.  *  Well,  then  I  don't  deny  there  was  a 
moment — one  moment  precisely,  when  those 
fresh,  vulgar  cheeks  of  hers  .  .  .  But  if  1 
wanted  to  repay  you  with  reproaches  and 
remind  you  .  .  .  Good-bye,'  he  added  sud- 
denly, *  I  feel  I  shall  say  something  silly.' 

And  with  a  blow  on  the  clay  moulded  into 
the  shape  of  a  head,  he  ran  out  of  the  arbour 
and  went  off  to  his  room. 

*  What  a  baby,'  said  Elena,  looking  after  him. 

*  He 's  an  artist,'  observed  Bersenyev  with  a 
quiet  smile.  'AH  artists  are  like  that.  One 
must  forgive  them  their  caprices.  That  is  their 
privilege.' 

'  Yes,'  replied  Elena ;  '  but  Pavel  has  not  so 
far  justified  his  claim  to  that  privilege  in  any 
way.  What  has  he  done  so  far?  Give  me 
your  arm,  and  let  us  go  along  the  avenue.  He 
was  in  our  way.  We  were  talking  of  your 
father's  works.' 

Bersenyev  took  Elena's  arm  in  his,  and 
32 


ON    THE   EVE 

v/alked  beside  her  through  the  garden  ;  but 
the  conversation  prematurely  broken  off  was 
not  renewed.  Bersenyev  began  again  unfolding 
his  views  on  the  vocation  of  a  professor,  and 
on  his  own  future  career.  He  walked  slowly 
beside  Elena,  moving  awkwardly,  awkwardly 
holding  her  arm,  sometimes  jostling  his 
shoulder  against  her,  and  not  once  looking  at 
her ;  but  his  talk  flowed  more  easily,  even  if 
not  perfectly  freely ;  he  spoke  simply  and 
genuinely,  and  his  eyes,  as  they  strayed  slowly 
over  the  trunks  of  the  trees,  the  sand  of  the 
path  and  the  grass,  were  bright  with  the 
quiet  ardour  of  generous  emotions,  while  in 
his  soothed  voice  there  was  heard  the  delight 
of  a  man  who  feels  that  he  is  succeeding  in 
expressing  himself  to  one  very  dear  to  him. 
Elena  listened  to  him  very  attentively,  and 
turning  half  towards  him,  did  not  take  her 
eyes  off  his  face,  which  had  grown  a  little  paler 
— off  his  eyes,  which  were  soft  and  affectionate, 
though  they  avoided  meeting  her  eyes.  Her 
soul  expanded ;  and  something  tender,  holy,  and 
good  seemed  half  sinking  into  her  heart,  half 
springing  up  within  it 


33 


Shubin  did  not  leave  his  room  before  night. 
It  was  already  quite  dark ;  the  moon — not  yet 
at  the  full — stood  high  in  the  sky,  the  millcy 
way  shone  white,  and  the  stars  spotted  the 
heavens,  when  Bersenyev,  after  taking  leave  of 
Anna  Vasiilycvna,  Elena,  and  Zoya,  went  up 
to  his  friend's  door.  He  found  it  locked.  He 
knocked. 

*  Who  is  there  ?  *  sounded  Shubin's  voice. 

*  I,'  answered  Bersenyev. 

*  What  do  you  want  ?  ' 

*  Let  me   in,   Pavel ;  don't  be  sulky ;  aren^t 
you  ashamed  of  yourself?' 

*  I  am  not  sulky  ;  I  'm  asleep  and  dreaming 
about  Zoya.' 

'Do  stop  that,  please;. you're  not  a  baby. 
Let  me  in.     I  want  to  talk  to  you.' 

*  Haven't  you  had  talk  enough  with  Elena?* 

*  Come,  come ;  let  me  in  I ' 

Shubin    responded    by   a    pretended   snore. 
34 


ON   THE  EVE 

Bersenyev  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned 
homewards. 

The  night  was  warm  and  seemed  strangely 
still,  as  though  everything  were  listening  and 
expectant ;  and  Bersenyev,  enfolded  in  the  still 
darkness,  stopped  involuntarily  ;  and  he,  too, 
listened  expectant.  On  the  tree-tops  near  there 
was  a  faint  stir,  like  the  rustle  of  a  woman's 
dress,  awaking  in  him  a  feeling  half-sweet, 
half-painful,  a  feeling  almost  of  fright.  He 
felt  a  tingling  in  his  cheeks,  his  eyes  were 
chill  with  momentary  tears ;  he  would  have 
liked  to  move  quite  noiselessly,  to  steal  along 
in  secret.  A  cross  gust  of  wind  blew  suddenly 
on  him  ;  he  almost  shuddered,  and  his  heart 
stood  still ;  a  drowsy  beetle  fell  off  a  twig  and 
dropped  with  a  thud  on  the  path ;  Bersenyev 
uttered  a  subdued  *  Ah ! '  and  again  stopped. 
But  he  began  to  think  of  Elena,  and  all  these 
passing  sensations  vanished  at  once  ;  there  re- 
mained only  the  reviving  sense  of  the  night 
freshness,  of  the  walk  by  night ;  his  whole  soul 
was  absorbed  by  the  image  of  the  young  girl. 
Bersenyev  walked  with  bent  head,  recalling 
her  words,  her  questions.  He  fancied  he 
heard  the  tramp  of  quick  steps  behind.  He 
listened  :  some  one  was  running,  some  one  was 
overtaking  him  ;  he  heard  panting,  and  sud- 
denly from  a  black  circle  of  shadow  cast  by  a 
35 


ON   THE   EVE 

huge  tree  Shubin  sprang  out  before  him,  quite 
pale  in  the  light  of  the  moon,  with  no  cap  on 
his  disordered  curls. 

*  I  am  glad  you  came  along  this  path,'  he 
said  with  an  effort  '  I  should  not  have  slept 
all  night,  if  I  had  not  overtaken  you.  Give  me 
your  hand.     Are  you  going  home  ? ' 

'  Yes.' 

*  I  will  see  you  home  then.* 

*  But  why  have  you  come  without  a  cap  on  ?' 

*  That  doesn't  matter.  I  took  off  my  necker- 
chief too.     It  is  quite  warm.' 

The  friends  walked  a  few  paces. 

*  I  was  very  stupid  to-day,  wasn't  I  ?'  Shubin 
asked  suddenly. 

*To  speak  frankly,  you  were.  I  couldn't 
make  you  out.  I  have  never  seen  you  like 
that  before.  And  what  were  you  angry  about 
really?     Such  trifles!' 

*  H'm,'  muttered  Shubin.  '  That 's  how  you 
put  it ;  but  they  were  not  trifles  to  me.  You 
see,'  he  went  on,  *  I  ought  to  point  out  to 
you  that  I — that — you  may  think  what  you 
please  of  me — I — well  there !  I  'm  in  love 
with  Elena.' 

'You  in  love  with  Elena!'  repeated  Bersen- 
yev,  standing  still. 

*  Yes/  pursued  Shubin  with  affected  careless- 
ness.     *Does  that  astonish  you?      I  will  tell 

36 


ON   THE  EVE 

you  something  else.  Till  this  evening  I  still 
had  hopes  that  she  might  come  to  love  me  in 
time.  But  to-day  I  have  seen  for  certain  that 
there  is  no  hope  for  me.  She  is  in  love  with 
some  one  else.' 

*  Some  one  else  ?     Whom  ?  ' 

*  Whom  ?  You  ! '  cried  Shubin,  slapping  Ber- 
senyev  on  the  shoulder. 

*  Me ! ' 

*  You,'  repeated  Shubin. 

Bersenyev  stepped  back  a  pace,  and  stood 
motionless.     Shubin  looked  intently  at  him. 

'  And  does  that  astonish  you  ?  You  are  a 
modest  youth.  But  she  loves  you.  You  can 
make  your  mind  easy  on  that  score.' 

'W'hat  nonsense  you  talk!'  Bersenyev  pro- 
tested at  last  with  an  air  of  vexation. 

*No,  it's  not  nonsense.  But  why  are  we 
standing  still  ?  Let  us  go  on.  It 's  easier  to 
talk  as  we  walk.  I  have  known  her  a  long 
while,  and  I  know  her  well.  I  cannot  be  mis- 
taken. You  are  a  man  after  her  own  heart. 
There  was  a  time  when  she  found  me  agree- 
able ;  but,  in  the  first  place,  I  am  too  frivolous 
a  young  man  for  her,  while  you  are  a  serious 
person,  you  are  a  morally  and  physically  well- 
regulated  person,  you — hush,  I  have  not  fin- 
ished, you  are  a  conscientiously  disposed  enthu- 
siast, a  genuine  type  of  those  devotees  of  science, 
37 


ON  THE  EVE 

of  whom — no  not  of  whom — whereof  the  middle 
class  of  Russian   gentry  are  so  justly  proud ! 
And,  secondly,   Elena   caught    me    the    other 
day  kissing  Zoya's  arms!' 
*Zoya's?' 

*  Yes,  Zoya's.  What  would  you  have  ?  She 
has  such  fine  shoulders.* 

*  Shoulders  ? ' 

*  Well  there,  shoulders  and  arms,  isn't  it  all 
the  same?  Elena  caught  me  in  this  uncon- 
strained proceeding  after  dinner,  and  before 
dinner  I  had  been  abusing  Zoya  in  her  hearing. 
Elena  unfortunately  doesn't  understand  how 
natural  such  contradictions  are.  Then  you  came 
on  the  scene,  you  have  faith  in — what  the 
deuce  is  it  you  have  faith  in?  .  .  .  You  blush  and 
look  confused,  you  discuss  Schiller  and  Schelling 
(she's  always  on  the  look-out  for  remarkable 
men),  and  so  you  have  won  the  day,  and  I,  poor 
wretch,  try  to  joke — and  all  the  while ' 

Shubin  suddenly  burst  into  tears,  turned 
away,  and  dropping  upon  the  ground  clutched 
at  his  hair. 

Bersenyev  went  up  to  him. 

*  Pavel,'  he  began,  *  what  childishness  this  is  ! 
Really !  what 's  the  matter  with  you  to-day  ? 
God  knows  what  nonsense  you  have  got  into 
your  head,  and  you  are  crying.  Upon  ray  word, 
I  believe  you  must  be  putting  it  on.' 

38 


ON   THE   EVE 

Shubin  lifted  up  his  head.  The  tears  shone 
bright  on  his  cheeks  in  the  moonlight,  but  therd 
was  a  smile  on  his  face. 

*  Andrei  Petrovitch,'  he  said,  *you  may  think 
what  you  please  about  me.  I  am  even  ready 
to  agree  with  you  that  I  'm  hysterical  now,  but, 
by  God,  I'm  in  love  with  Elena,  and  Elena 
loves  you.  I  promised,  though,  to  see  you 
home,  and  I  will  keep  my  promise.' 

I     He  got  up. 

'What  a  night!  silvery,  dark,  youthful!  How 
sweet  it  must  be  to-night  for  men  who  are  loved! 
How  sweet  for  them  not  to  sleep !  Will  you 
sleep,  Andrei  Petrovitch?* 

Bersenyev  made  no  answer,  and  quickened 
his  pace. 

*  Where  are  you  hurrying  to?'  Shubin  went 
on.  'Trust  my  words,  a  night  like  this  will 
never  come  again  in  your  life,  and  at  home, 
Schelling  will  keep.  It 's  true  he  did  you  good 
service  to-day  ;  but  you  need  not  hurry  for  all 
that.  Sing,  if  you  can  sing,  sing  louder  than 
ever ;  if  you  can't  sing,  take  off  your  hat, 
throw  up  your  head,  and  smile  to  the  stars. 
They  are  all  looking  at  you,  at  you  alone ;  the 
stars  never  do  anything  but  look  down  upon 
lovers — that 's  why  they  are  so  charming.  You 
are  in  love,  I  suppose,  Andrei  Petrovitch  ?  .  .  . 
You    don't    answer    me  .  .  .  why    don't    you 

39 


ON    THE   EVE 

answer  ? '  Shubin  began  again  :  *  Oh,  if  you  feel 
happy,  be  quiet,  be  quiet !  I  chatter  because  1 
am  a  poor  devil,  unloved,  I  am  a  jester,  an  artist, 
a  buffoon  ;  but  what  unutterable  ecstasy  would 
I  quaff  in  the  night  wind  under  the  stars,  if  I 
knew  that  I  were  loved !  .  ,  .  Bersenyev,  are 
you  happy  ? ' 

Bersenyev  was  silent  as  before,  and  walked 
quickly  along  the  smooth  path.  In  front, 
between  the  trees,  glimmered  the  lights  of  the 
little  village  in  which  he  was  staying  ;  it  con- 
sisted of  about  a  dozen  small  villas  for  summer 
visitors.  At  the  very  beginning  of  the  village, 
to  the  right  of  the  road,  a  little  shop  stood 
under  two  spreading  birch-trees  ;  its  windows 
were  all  closed  already,  but  a  wide  patch  of 
light  fell  fan-shaped  from  the  open  door  upon 
the  trodden  grass,  and  was  cast  upwards  on  the 
trees,  showing  up  sharply  the  whitish  undersides 
of  the  thick  growing  leaves.  A  girl,  who  looked 
like  a  maid-servant,  was  standing  in  the  shop 
with  her  back  against  the  doorpost,  bargaining 
with  the  shopkeeper  ;  from  beneath  the  red  ker- 
chief which  she  had  wrapped  round  her  head, 
and  held  with  bare  hand  under  her  chin,  could 
just  be  seen  her  round  cheek  and  slender  throat. 
The  young  men  stepped  into  the  patch  of  light ; 
Shubin  looked  into  the  shop,  stopped  short, 
and  cried  '  Annushka  I '  The  girl  turned  round 
40 


ON   THE   EVE 

quickly.  They  saw  a  nice-looking,  rather 
broad  but  fresh  face,  with  merry  brown  eyes 
and  black  eyebrows.  *  Annushka  ! '  repeated 
Shubin.  The  girl  saw  him,  looked  scared  and 
shamefaced,  and  without  finishing  her  purchases, 
she  hurried  down  the  steps,  slipped  quickly 
past,  and,  hardly  looking  round,  went  along  the 
road  to  the  left.  The  shopkeeper,  a  puffy  man, 
unmoved  by  anything  in  the  world,  like  all 
country  shopkeepers  gasped  and  gaped  after 
her,  while  Shubin  turned  to  Bersenyev  with  the 
words :  *  That 's  .  .  .  you  see  .  .  .  there  *s  a 
family  here  I  know  ...  so  at  their  house  .  .  . 
you  mustn't  imagine  *  .  .  .  and,  without  finish- 
ing his  speech,  he  ran  after  the  retreating  girl. 

*  You  'd  better  at  least  wipe  your  tears  away,' 
Bersenyev  shouted  after  him,  and  he  could  not 
refrain  from  laughing.  But  when  he  got  home, 
his  face  had  not  a  mirthful  expression ;  he 
laughed  no  longer.  He  had  not  for  a  single 
instant  believed  what  Shubin  had  told  him, 
but  the  words  he  had  uttered  had  sunk  deep 
into  his  soul. 

*  Pavel  was  making  a  fool  of  me,'  he  thought ; 
•  .  .  .  but  she  will  love  one  day  .  .  .  whom  will 
she  love  ?' 

In  Bersenyev's  room  there  was  a  piano,  small, 
and  by  no  means  new,  but  of  a  soft  and  sweet 
tone,  though  not  perfectly  in  tune.     Bersenyev 

41 


ON  THE  EVE 

sat  down  to  it,  and  began  to  strike  some  chords. 
Like  all  Russians  of  good  birth,  he  had  studied 
music  in  his  childhood,  and  like  almost  all  Rus- 
sian gentlemen,  he  played  very  badly ;  but  he 
loved  music  passionately.  Strictly  speaking, 
he  did  not  love  the  art,  the  forms  in  which 
music  is  expressed  (symphonies  and  sonatas, 
even  operas  wearied  him),  but  he  loved  the 
poetry  of  music :  he  loved  those  vague  and 
sweet,  shapeless,  and  all-embracing  emotions 
which  are  stirred  in  the  soul  by  the  combina- 
tions and  successions  of  sounds.  For  more 
than  an  hour,  he  did  not  move  from  the  piano, 
repeating  many  times  the  same  chords,  awk- 
wardly picking  out  new  ones,  pausing  and 
melting  over  the  minor  sevenths.  His  heart 
ached,  and  his  eyes  more  than  once  filled  with 
tears.  He  was  not  ashamed  of  them  ;  he  let 
them  flow  in  the  darkness.  *  Pavel  was  right,' 
he  thought,  *  I  feel  it ;  this  evening  will  not 
come  again.'  At  last  he  got  up,  lighted  a 
candle,  put  on  his  dressing-gown,  took  down 
from  the  bookshelf  the  second  volume  of 
Raumer's  History  of  the  Hohenstaufen,  and 
sighing  twice,  he  set  to  work  diligently  to 
read  it 


42 


VI 


Meanwhile,  Elena  had  gone  to  her  room,  and 
sat  down  at  the  open  window,  her  head  resting 
on  her  hands.  To  spend  about  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  every  evening  at  her  bedroom  window  had 
become  a  habit  with  her.  At  this  time  she 
held  converse  with  herself,  and  passed  in  review 
the  preceding  day.  She  had  not  long  reached 
her  twentieth  year.  She  was  tall,  and  had  a 
pale  and  dark  face,  large  grey  eyes  under 
arching  brows,  covered  with  tiny  freckles,  a 
perfectly  regular  forehead  and  nose,  tightly 
compressed  lips,  and  a  rather  sharp  chin.  Her 
hair,  of  a  chestnut  shade,  fell  low  on  her  slender 
neck.  In  her  whole  personality,  in  the  expres- 
sion of  her  face,  intent  and  a  little  timorous,  in 
her  clear  but  changing  glance,  in  her  smile, 
which  was,  as  it  were,  intense,  in  her  soft  and 
uneven  voice,  there  was  something  nervous, 
electric,  something  impulsive  and  hurried, 
something,  in  fact,  which  could  never  be  at- 
tractive to  every  one,  which  even  repelled  some. 
43 


ON    THE   EVE 

Her  hands  were  slender  and  rosy,  with  long 
fingers ;  her  feet  were  slender ;  she  walked 
swiftly,  almost  impetuously,  her  figure  bent  a 
little  forward.  She  had  grown  up  very  strangely ; 
first  she  idolised  her  father,  then  she  became  pas- 
sionately devoted  to  her  mother,  and  had  grown 
cold  to  both  of  them,  especially  to  her  father. 
Of  late  years  she  had  behaved  to  her  mother  as 
to  a  sick  grandmother  ;  while  her  father,  who 
had  been  proud  of  her  while  she  had  been 
regarded  as  an  exceptional  child,  had  come  to 
be  afraid  of  her  when  she  was  grown  up,  and 
said  of  her  that  she  was  a  sort  of  enthusiastic 
republican — no  one  could  say  where  she  got 
it  from.  Weakness  revolted  her,  stupidity  made 
iher  angry,  and  deceit  she  could  never,  never 
[pardon.  She  was  exacting  beyond  all  bounds, 
even  her  prayers  had  more  than  once  been 
mingled  with  reproaches.  When  once  a  person 
had  lost  her  respect — and  she  passed  judgment 
quickly,  often  too  quickly — he  ceased  to  exist 
for  her.  All  impressions  cut  deeply  into  her 
heart ;  life  was  bitter  earnest  for  her.v' 

The  governess  to  whom  Anna  Vassilyevna 
had  entrusted  the  finishing  of  her  daughter's 
education — an  education,  we  may  remark  in 
parenthesis,  which  had  not  even  been  begun  by 
the  languid  lady — was  a  Russian,  the  daughter 
of  a  ruined  official,  educated  at  a  government 
44 


ON   THE   EVE 

boarding  school,  a  very  emotional,  soft-hearted, 
and  deceitful  creature  ;  she  was  for  ever  falling 
in  love,  and  ended  in  her  fiftieth  year  (when 
Elena  was  seventeen)  by  marrying  an  officer  of 
some  sort,  who  deserted  her  without  loss  of 
time.  This  governess  was  very  fond  of  litera- 
ture, and  wrote  verses  herself;  she  inspired 
Elena  with  a  love  of  reading,  but  reading  alone 
did  not  satisfy  the  girl ;  from  childhood  she 
thirsted  for  action,  for  active  well-doing — the 
poor,  the  hungry,  and  the  sick  absorbed  her 
thoughts,  tormented  her,  and  made  her  heart 
heavy ;  she  used  to  dream  of  them,  and  to  ply 
all  her  friends  with  questions  about  them  ;  she 
gave  alms  carefully,  with  unconscious  solemnity, 
almost  with  a  thrill  of  emotion.  All  ill-used 
creatures,  starved  dogs,  cats  condemned  to 
death,  sparrows  fallen  out  of  the  nest,  even 
insects  and  reptiles  found  a  champion  and  pro- 
tector in  Elena  ;  she  fed  them  herself,  and  felt 
no  repugnance  for  them.  Her  mother  did  not 
interfere  with  her ;  but  her  father  used  to  be 
very  indignant  with  his  daughter,  for  her — as  he 
called  it — vulgar  soft-heartedness,  and  declared 
there  was  not  room  to  move  for  the  cats  and 
dogs  in  the  house.  *Lenotchka,'  he  would 
shout  to  her,  'come  quickly,  here's  a  spider 
eating  a  fly ;  come  and  save  the  poor  wretch !  * 
And  Lenotchka,  all  excitement,  would  run  up, 
45 


ON   THE  EVE 

set  the  fly  free,  and  disentangle  its  legs.  *  Well, 
now  let  it  bite  you  a  little,  since  you  are  so 
kind,'  her  father  would  say  ironically  ;  but  she 
did  not  hear  him.  At  ten  years  old  Elena  made 
friends  with  a  little  beggar-girl,  Katya,  and 
used  to  go  secretly  to  meet  her  in  the  garden, 
took  her  nice  things  to  eat,  and  presented  her 
with  handkerchiefs  and  pennies  ;  playthings 
Katya  would  not  take.  She  would  sit  beside 
her  on  the  dry  earth  among  the  bushes  behind 
a  thick  growth  of  nettles ;  with  a  feeling  of 
delicious  humility  she  ate  her  stale  bread  and 
listened  to  her  stories.  Katya  had  an  aunt,  an 
ill-natured  old  woman,  who  often  beat  her ; 
Katya  hated  her,  and  was  always  talking  of 
how  she  would  run  away  from  her  aunt  and  live 
in  *  God!  s  full  freedom ' ;  with  secret  respect  and 
awe  Elena  drank  in  these  new  unknown  words, 
stared  intently  at  Katya  and  everything  about 
her — her  quick  black,  almost  animal  eyes,  her 
sun-burnt  hands,  her  hoarse  voice,  even  her 
ragged  clothes — seemed  to  Elena  at  such  times 
something  particular  and  distinguished,  almost 
holy.  Elena  went  back  home,  and  for  long 
after  dreamed  of  beggars  and  God's  freedom ; 
she  would  dream  over  plans  of  how  she  would 
cut  herself  a  hazel  stick,  and  put  on  a  wallet 
and  run  away  with  Katya ;  how  she  would 
wander  about  the  roads  in  a  wreath  of  corn- 
46 


ON   THE  EVE 

flowers  ;  she  had  seen  Katya  one  day  in  just 
such  a  wreath.  If,  at  such  times,  any  one  of 
her  family  came  into  the  room,  she  would  shun 
them  and  look  shy.  One  day  she  ran 
out  in  the  rain  to  meet  Katya,  and  made  her 
frock  muddy ;  her  father  saw  her,  and  called 
her  a  slut  and  a  peasant-wench.  She  grew  hot 
all  over,  and  there  was  something  of  terror  and 
rapture  in  her  heart  Katya  often  sang  some 
half-brutal  soldier's  song.  Elena  learnt  this 
song  from  her.  .  .  .  Anna  Vassilyevna  over- 
heard her  singing  it,  and  was  very  indignant. 

'  Where  did  you  pick  up  such  horrors  ? '  she 
asked  her  daughter. 

Elena  only  looked  at  her  mother,  and  would 
not  say  a  word  ;  she  felt  that  she  would  let 
them  tear  her  to  pieces  sooner  than  betray  her 
secret,  and  again  there  was  a  terror  and  sweet- 
ness in  her  heart.  Her  friendship  with  Katya, 
however,  did  not  last  long  ;  the  poor  little  girl 
fell  sick  of  fever,  and  in  a  few  days  she  was  dead. 

Elena  was  greatly  distressed,  and  spent  sleep- 
less nights  for  long  after  she  heard  of  Katya's 
death.  The  last  words  of  the  little  beggar-girl 
were  constantly  ringing  in  her  ears,  and  she 
fancied  that  she  was  being  called.  .  .  . 

The  years  passed  and  passed  ;  swiftly  and 
noiselessly,  like  waters  running  under  the  snow, 
Elena's  youth  glided  by,  outwardly  uneventful, 
47 


ON    THE   EVE 

inwardly  in  conflict  and  emotion.  She  had  no 
friend  ;  she  did  not  get  on  with  any  one  of  all 
the  girls  who  visited  the  Stahovs'  house.  Her 
parents'  authority  had  never  weighed  heavily 
on  Elena,  and  from  her  sixteenth  year  she  be- 
came absolutely  independent;  she  began  to 
live  a  life  of  her  own,  but  it  was  a  life  of 
solitude.  Her  soul  glowed,  and  the  fire  died 
away  again  in  solitude ;  she  struggled  like  a 
bird  in  a  cage,  and  cage  there  was  none;  no  one 
oppressed  her,  no  one  restrained  her,  while  she 
was  torn,  and  fretted  within.  Sometimes  she  did 
not  understand  herself,  was  even  frightened  of 
herself.  Everything  that  surrounded  her  seemed 
to  her  half  -  senseless,  half  -  incomprehensible. 
*'  How  live  without  love  ?  and  there 's  no  one  to 
love  ! '  she  thought ;  and  she  felt  terror  again  at 
these  thoughts,  these  sensations.  At  eighteen, 
she  nearly  died  of  malignant  fever  ;  her  whole 
constitution— naturally  healthy  and  vigorous — 
was  seriously  affected,  and  it  was  long  before  it 
could  perfectly  recover  ;  the  last  traces  of  the  ill- 
ness disappeared  at  last,  but  Elena  Nikolaevna's 
father  was  never  tired  of  talking  with  some 
spitefulness  of  her  'nerves.'  Sometimes  she 
fancied  that  she  wanted  something  which  no  one 
wanted,  of  which  no  one  in  all  Russia  dreamed- 
Then  she  would  grow  calmer,  and  even  laugb 
at  herself,  and  pass  day  after  day  un/:on- 
48 


ON   THE  EVE 

cernedly ;  but  suddenly  some  over-mastering, 
nameless  force  would  surge  up  within  her,  and 
seem  to  clamour  for  an  outlet.  The  storm 
passed  over,  and  the  wings  of  her  soul  drooped 
without  flight ;  but  these  tempests  of  feeling 
cost  her  much.  However  she  might  strive  not 
to  betray  what  was  passing  within  her,  the 
suffering  of  the  tormented  spirit  was  expressed 
in  her  even  external  tranquillity,  and  her  parents 
were  ofteri  justined  in  shrugging  their  shoulders 
in  astonishment,  and  failing  to  understand  her 
*  queer  ways.' 

On  the  day  with  which  our  story  began, 
Elena  did  not  leave  the  window  till  later  than 
usual.  She  thought  much  of  Bersenyev,  and  of 
her  conversation  with  him.  She  liked  him  ; 
she  believed  in  the  warmth  of  his  feelings,  and 
the  purity  of  his  aims.  He  had  never  before 
talked  to  her  as  on  that  evening.  She  recalled 
the-  expression  of  his  timid  eyes,  his  smiles — 
and  she  smiled  herself  and  fell  to  musing,  but  not 
of  him.  She  began  to  look  out  into  the  night 
from  the  open  window.  For  a  long  time  she 
gazed  at  the  dark,  low-hanging  sky ;  then  she 
got  up,  flung  back  her  hair  from  her  face  with 
a  shake  of  her  head,  and,  herself  not  knowing 
why,  she  stretched  out  to  it — to  that  sky — her 
bare  chilled  arms  ;  then  she  dropped  them,  fell  on 
her  knees  beside  her  bed,  pressed  her  face  into 
49  D 


ON  THE  EVE 

the  pillow,  and,  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  not 
to  yield  to  the  passion  overwhelming  her,  she 
burst  into  strange,  uncomprehending,  burning 
tears^ 


VII 

The  next  day  at  twelve  o'clock,  Bersenyev  set 
off  in  a  return  coach  to  Moscow.  He  had  to 
get  some  money  from  the  post-office,  to  buy 
some  books,  and  he  wanted  to  seize  the  oppor- 
tunity to  see  Insarov  and  have  some  conversa- 
tion with  him.  The  idea  had  occurred  to 
Bersenyev,  in  the  course  of  his  last  conversation 
with  Shubin,  to  invite  Insarov  to  stay  with  him 
at  his  country  lodgings.  But  it  was  some  time 
before  he  found  him  out ;  from  his  former 
lodging  he  had  moved  to  another,  which  it  was 
not  easy  to  discover  ;  it  was  in  the  court  at  the 
back  of  a  squalid  stone  house,  built  in  the 
Petersburg  style,  between  Arbaty  Road  and 
Povarsky  Street.  In  vain  Bersenyev  wandered 
from  one  dirty  staircase  to  another,  in  vain  he 
called  first  to  a  doorkeeper,  then  to  a  passer-by. 
Porters  even  in  Petersburg  try  to  avoid  the  eyes 
of  visitors,  and  in  Moscow  much  more  so  ;  no 
one  answered  Bersenyev's  call ;  only  an  inquisi- 
51 


ON   THE    EVE 

tive  tailor,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  with  a  skein  of 
grey  thread  on  his  shoulder,  thrust  out  from  a 
high  casement  window  a  dirty,  dull,  unshorn 
face,  with  a  blackened  eye ;  and  a  black  and 
hornless  goat,  clambering  up  on  to  a  dung  heap, 
turned  round,  bleated  plaintively,  and  went  on 
chewing  the  cud  faster  than  before.  A  woman 
in  an  old  cloak,  and  shoes  trodden  down  at 
heel,  took  pity  at  last  on  Bersenyev  and  pointed 
out  Insarov's  lodging  to  him.  Bersenyev  found 
him  at  home.  He  had  taken  a  room  with  the 
very  tailor  who  had  stared  down  so  indifferently 
at  the  perplexity  of  a  wandering  stranger ;  a 
large,  almost  empty  room,  with  dark  green 
walls,  three  square  windows,  a  tiny  bedstead  in 
one  corner,  a  little  leather  sofa  in  another,  and 
a  huge  cage  hung  up  to  the  very  ceiling ;  in 
this  cage  there  had  once  lived  a  nightingale. 
Insarov  came  to  meet  Bersenyev  directly  he 
crossed  the  threshold,  but  he  did  not  exclaim, 

*  Ah,  it 's  you  ! '  or  *  Good  Heavens,  what  happy 
chance  has  brought  you  ? '    He  did  not  even  say, 

*  How  do  you  do  ? '  but  simply  pressed  his 
hand  and  led  him  up  to  the  solitary  chair  in 
the  room. 

*  Sit  down,'  he  said,  and  he  seated  himself  on 
the  edge  of  the  table. 

'  I  am,  as  you  see,  still  in  disorder,'  added 
Insarov,  pointing  to  a  pile  of  papers  and  books 
52 


ON   THE  EVE 

on  the  floor, '  I  haven't  got  settled  in  as  I  ought 
I  have  not  had  time  yet/ 

Insarov  spoke  Russian  perfectly  correctly, 
pronouncing  every  word  fully  and  purely  ;  but 
his  guttural  though  pleasant  voice  sounded 
somehow  not  Russian.  Insarov's  foreign  ex- 
traction (he  was  a  Bulgarian  by  birth)  was  still 
more  clearly  marked  in  his  appearance  ;  he  was 
a  young  man  of  five-and- twenty,  spare  and 
sinewy,  with  a  hollow  chest  and  knotted  fingers  ; 
he  had  sharp  features,  a  hooked  nose,  blue- 
black  hair,  a  low  forehead,  small,  intent-looking, 
deep-set  eyes,  and  bushy  eyebrows  ;  when  he 
smiled,  splendid  white  teeth  gleamed  for  an 
instant  between  his  thin,  hard,  over-defined  lips. 
He  was  in  a  rather  old  but  tidy  coat,  buttoned 
up  to  the  throat. 

*  Why  did  you  leave  your  old  lodging  ? '  Ber- 
senyev  asked  him. 

'  This  is  cheaper,  and  nearer  to  the  university.* 

*  But  now  it's  vacation.  .  .  .  And  what  could 
induce  you  to  stay  in  the  town  in  summer! 
You  should  have  taken  a  country  cottage  if 
you  were  determined  to  move.' 

Insarov  made  no  reply  to  this  remark,  and 
offered  Bersenyev  a  pipe,  adding :  '  Excuse  me, 
I  have  no  cigarettes  or  cigars.' 

Bersenyev  began  smoking  the  pipe. 

*  Here  have  I,'  he  went  on,.  *  taken  a  little 

53 


ON   THE   EVE 

house  near  Kuntsovo,  very  cheap  and  very 
roomy.  In  fact  there  is  a  room  to  spare 
upstairs.' 

Insarov  again  made  no  answer. 

Bersenyev  drew  at  the  pipe :  '  I  have  even 
been  thinking/  he  began  again,  blowing  out  the 
smoke  in  a  thin  cloud, '  that  if  any  one  could  be 
found — you,  for  instance,  I  thought  of — who 
would  care,  who  would  consent  to  establish 
himself  there  upstairs,  how  nice  it  would  be! 
What  do  you  think,  Dmitri  Nikanorovitch  ? ' 

Insarov  turned  his  little  eyes  on  him.  *  You 
propose  my  staying  in  your  country  house  ?  * 

*  Yes  ;  I  have  a  room  to  spare  there  upstairs.' 

*  Thanks  very  much,  Andrei  Petrovitch  ;  but 
I  expect  my  means  would  not  allow  of  it.' 

*  How  do  you  mean  ? ' 

*  My  means  would  not  allow  of  my  living  in  a 
country  house.  It 's  impossible  for  me  to  keep 
two  lodgings.' 

'  But  of  course  I ' — Bersenyev  was  begin- 
ning, but  he  stopped  short.  '  You  would  have 
no  extra  expense  in  that  way,'  he  went  on. 
'  Your  lodging  here  would  remain  for  you,  let  us 
suppose;  but  then  everything  there  is  very 
cheap ;  we  could  even  arrange  so  as  to  dine,  for 
instance,  together.' 

Insarov  said  nothing.  Bersenyev  began  to 
feel  awkward. 

54 


ON   THE  EVE 

*  You  might  at  least  pay  me  a  visit  sometime,' 
he  began,  after  a  short  pause.  *A  few  steps 
from  me  there's  a  family  living  with  whom  I 
want  very  much  to  make  you  acquainted.  If 
only  you  knew,  Insarov,  what  a  marvellous 
girl  there  is  there !  There  is  an  intimate  friend 
of  mine  staying  there  too,  a  man  of  great  talent ; 
I  am  sure  you  would  get  on  with  him.  [The 
Russian  loves  to  be  hospitable — of  his  friends  if 
he  can  offer  nothing  else.]  Really,  you  must 
come.  And  what  would  be  better  still,  come 
and  stay  with  me,  do.  We  could  work  and  read 
together.  ...  I  am  busy,  as  you  know,  with 
history  and  philosophy.  All  that  would  interest 
you.     I  have  a  lot  of  books.' 

Insarov  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room. 
'  Let  me  know,'  he  said,  '  how  much  do  you  pay 
for  your  cottage  ? ' 

*  A  hundred  silver  roubles.* 

*  And  how  many  rooms  are  there  ?' 
•Five.' 

*Then  one  may  reckon  that  one  room  costs 
twenty  roubles?' 

*  Yes,  one  may  reckon  so.  .  .  .  But  really  it 's 
utterly  unnecessary  for  me.  It  simply  stands 
empty.* 

*  Perhaps  so  ;  but  listen,'  added  Insarov,  with 
a  decided,  but  at  the  same  time  good-natured 
movement  of  his  head  :  *  I  can  only  take  ad- 

$5 


ON   THE  EVE 

vantage  of  your  offer  if  you  agree  to  take  the 
sum  we  have  reckoned.  Twenty  roubles  I  am 
able  to  give,  the  more  easily,  since,  as  you  say, 
I  shall  be  economising  there  in  other  things.' 

*  Of  course ;  but  really  I  am  ashamed  to  take 
it' 

*  Otherwise   it's  impossible,    Andrei    Petro- 
vitch.' 

*  Well,  as  you  like  ;    but  what  an  obstinate 
fellow  you  are ! ' 

Insarov  again  made  no  reply. 

The  young  men  made  arrangements  as  to  the 
day  on  which  Insarov  was  to  move.  They 
called  the  landlord  ;  at  first  he  sent  his  daughter, 
a  little  girl  of  seven,  with  a  large  striped  kerchief 
on  her  head  ;  she  listened  attentively,  almost 
with  awe,  to  all  Insarov  said  to  her,  and  went 
away  without  speaking ;  after  her,  her  mother, 
a  woman  far  gone  with  child,  made  her  appear- 
ance, also  wearing  a  kerchief  on  her  head,  but 
a  very  diminutive  one.  Insarov  informed  her 
that  he  was  going  to  stay  at  a  cottage  near 
Kuntsovo,  but  should  keep  on  his  lodging  and 
leave  all  his  things  in  their  keeping ;  the  tailor's 
wife  too  seemed  scared  and  went  away.  At  last 
the  man  himself  came  in  :  he  seemed  to  under- 
stand everything  from  the  first,  and  only  said 
gloomily:  '  Near  Kuntsovo  ? '  then  all  at  once  he 
opened  the  door  and  shouted  :  *  Are  you  going 
56 


ON   THE   EVE 

to  keep  the  lodgings  then?*  Insarov  reassured 
him.  'Well,  one  must  know,'  repeated  the 
tailor  morosely,  as  he  disappeared. 

Bersenyev  returned  home,  well  content  with 
the  success  of  his  proposal.  Insarov  escorted 
him  to  the  door  with  cordial  good  manners, 
not  common  in  Russia  ;  and,  when  he  was  left 
alone,  carefully  took  off  his  coat,  and  set  to 
work  upon  sorting  his  papers. 


17 


VIII 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  Anna  Vassil- 
yevna  was  sitting  in  her  drawing-room  and  was 
on  the  verge  of  weeping.  There  were  also  in 
the  room  her  husband  and  a  certain  Uvar  Ivano- 
vitch  Stahov,  a  distant  cousin  of  Nikolai  Artem- 
yevitch,  a  retired  cornet  of  sixty  years  old,  a 
man  corpulent  to  the  point  of  immobility,  with 
sleepy  yellowish  eyes,  and  colourless  thick  lips 
in  a  puffy  yellow  face.  Ever  since  he  had  re- 
tired, he  had  lived  in  Moscow  on  the  interest  of 
a  small  capital  left  him  by  a  wife  who  came 
of  a  shopkeeper's  family.  He  did  nothing,  and 
it  is  doubtful  whether  he  thought  of  anything  ; 
if  he  did  think,  he  kept  his  thoughts  to  himself. 
Once  only  in  his  life  he  had  been  thrown  into  a 
state  of  excitement  and  shown  signs  of  anima- 
tion, and  that  was  when  he  read  in  the  news- 
papers of  a  new  instrument  at  the  Universal 
Exhibition  in  London,  the  *contro-bombardon/ 
and  became  very  anxious  to  order  this  instru- 
58 


ON   THE   EVE 

ment  for  himself,  and  even  made  inquiries  as  to 
where  to  send  the  money  and  through  what 
office.  Uvar  Ivanovitch  wore  a  loose  snuff- 
coloured  coat  and  a  white  neckcloth,  used  to 
eat  often  and  much,  and  in  moments  of  great 
perplexity,  that  is  to  say  when  it  happened  to 
him  to  express  some  opinion,  he  would  flourish 
the  fingers  of  his  right  hand  meditatively  in  the 
air,  with  a  convulsive  spasm  from  the  first  finger 
to  the  little  finger,  and  back  from  the  little  finger 
to  the  first  finger,  while  he  articulated  with 
effort,  'to  be  sure  .  .  .  there  ought  to  ...  in 
some  sort  of  a  way,* 

Uvar  Ivanovitch  was  sitting  in  an  easy  chair 
by  the  window,  breathing  heavily ;  Nikolai 
Artemyevitch  was  pacing  with  long  strides  up 
and  down  the  room,  his  hands  thrust  into  his 
pockets  ;  his  face  expressed  dissatisfaction. 

He  stood  still  at  last  and  shook  his  head. 
*  Yes  ; '  he  began,  *  in  our  day  young  men  were 
brought  up  differently.  Young  men  did  not 
permit  themselves  to  be  lacking  in  respect  to 
their  elders.  And  nowadays,  I  can  only  look  on 
and  wonder.  Possibly,  I  am  all  wrong,  and  they 
are  quite  right ;  possibly.  But  still  I  have  my 
own  views  of  things ;  I  was  not  born  a  fool. 
What  do  you  think  about  it,  Uvar  Ivanovitch  ? ' 

Uvar  Ivanovitch  could  only  look  at  him  and 
work  his  fingers. 

59 


ON   THE   EVE 

*  Elena  Nikolaevna,  for  instance/  pursued 
Nikolai  Artemyevitch,  *  Elena  Nikolaevna  I 
don't  pretend  to  understand.  I  am  not  elevated 
enough  for  her.  Her  heart  is  so  large  that  it 
embraces  all  nature  down  to  the  least  spider  or 
frog,  everything  in  fact  except  her  own  father. 
Well,  that 's  all  very  well ;  I  know  it,  and  I 
don't  trouble  myself  about  it.  For  that 's  nerves 
and  education  and  lofty  aspirations,  and  all 
that  is  not  in  my  line.  But  Mr.  Shubin  .  .  . 
admitting  he's  a  wonderful  artist — quite  ex- 
ceptional— that,  I  don't  dispute  ;  to  show  want 
of  respect  to  his  elder,  a  man  to  whom,  at  any 
rate,  one  may  say  he  is  under  great  obligation  ; 
that  I  confess,  dans  mon  gros  bon  sens^  I  cannot 
pass  over.  I  am  not  exacting  by  nature,  no, 
but  there  is  a  limit  to  everything.' 

Anna  Vassilyevna  rang  the  bell  in  a  tremor. 
A  little  page  came  in. 

*  Why  is  it  Pavel  Yakovlitch  does  not  come?' 
she  said,  *  what  does  it  mean  ;  I  call  him,  and 
he  doesn't  come  ? ' 

Nikolai  Artemyevitch  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

*  And  what  is  the  object,  may  I  ask,  of  your 
wanting  to  send  for  him  ?  I  don't  expect  that 
at  all,  I  don't  wish  it  even !  * 

'What's  the  object,  Nikolai  Artemyevitch? 
He   has   disturbed   you ;    very    likely   he   has 
checked  the  progress  of  your  cure.     I  want  to 
60 


ON   THE  EVE 

have  an  explanation  with  him.  I  want  to  know 
how  he  has  dared  to  annoy  you/ 

*I  tell  you  again,  that  I  do  not  ask  that 
And  what  can  induce  you  .  ,  .  devant  les 
domestiques^ 

Anna  Vassilyevna  flushed  a  little.  *You 
need  not  say  that,  Nikolai  Artemyevitch.  I 
never  .  .  .  devant  les  domestiqiies  .  .  .  Fedush- 
ka.  go  and  see  you  bring  Pavel  Vakovlitch 
here  at  once. 

The  little  page  went  oft*. 

*And  that's  absolutely  unnecessary/  mut- 
tered Nikolai  Artemyevitch  between  his  teeth, 
and  he  began  again  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room.  *  I  did  not  bring  up  the  subject  with 
that  object.' 

'Good  Heavens,  Paul  must  apologise  to 
you.' 

*Good  Heavens,  what  are  his  apologies  to 
me?  And  what  do  you  mean  by  apologies? 
That 's  all  words.' 

*  Why,  he  must  be  corrected,* 

*  Well,  you  can  con  cct  him  yourself.  He  will 
listen  to  you  sooner  than  to  me.  For  my 
part  I  bear  him  no  grudge.* 

'  No,  Nikolai  Artemyevitch,  you  've  not  been 
yourself  ever   since   you    arrived.      You    have 
even  to  my  eyes  grown  thinner  lately.     I  am 
afraid  your  treatment  is  doing  you  no  good.' 
6i 


ON   THE   EVE 

'The  treatment  is  quite  indispensable, 
observed  Nikolai  Artemyevitch,  *my  liver  is 
affected.' 

At  that  instant  Shubin  came  in.  He  looked 
tired.  A  slight  almost  ironical  smile  played  on 
his  lips. 

*  You  asked  for  me,  Anna  Vassilyevna  ? '  he 
observed. 

*Yes,  certainly  I  asked  for  you.  Really, 
Paul,  this  is  dreadful.  I  am  very  much  dis- 
pleased with  you.  How  could  you  be  wanting 
in  respect  to  Nikolai  Artemyevitch  > ' 

*  Nikolai  Artemyevitch  has  complained  of 
me  to  you.?*  inquired  Shubin,  and  with  the 
same  smile  on  his  lips  he  looked  at  Stahov. 
The  latter  turned  away,  dropping  his  eyes. 

'Yes,  he  complains  of  you.  I  don't  know 
what  you  have  done  amiss,  but  you  ought  to 
apologise  at  once,  because  his  health  is  very 
much  deranged  just  now,  and  indeed  we  all 
ought  when  we  are  young  to  treat  our  benefac- 
tcrs  with  respect' 

*  Ah,  what  logic  I  *  thought  Shubin,  and  he 
turned  to  Stahov.  *I  am  ready  to  apologise  to 
you,  Nikolai  Artemyevitch,'  he  said  with  a 
polite  half-bow,  *  if  I  have  really  offended  you 
in  any  way.' 

*  I  did  not  at  all  .  .  .  with  that  idea,*  rejoined 
Nikolai  Artemyevitch,  still  as  before  avoiding 

62 


ON   THE  EVE 

Shubin's  eyes.  *  However,  I  will  readily  for- 
give you,  for,  as  you  know,  I  am  not  an  exact- 
ing person.' 

'  Oh,  that  admits  of  no  doubt ! '  said  Shubin. 
*  But  allow  me  to  be  inquisitive ;  is  Anna 
Vassilyevna  aware  precisely  what  constituted 
my  offence  ? ' 

*  No,  I  know  nothing,'  observed  Anna  Vas- 
silyevna, craning  forward  her  head  expec- 
tantly. 

'  O  Good  Lord  ! '  exclaimed  Nikolai  Artem- 
yevitch  hurriedly,  'how  often  have  I  prayed 
and  besought,  how  often  have  I  said  how  I 
hate  these  scenes  and  explanations!  When 
one's  been  away  an  age,  and  comes  home 
hoping  for  rest — talk  of  the  family  circle, 
inUrmir,  being  a  family  man — and  here  one 
finds  scenes  and  unpleasantnesses.  There's 
not  a  minute  of  peace.  One 's  positively  driven 
to  the  club  ...  or,  or  elsewhere.  A  man  is 
alive,  he  has  a  physical  side,  and  it  has  its 
claims,  but  here ' 

And  without  concluding  his  sentence  Nikolai 
Artemyevitch  went  quickly  out,  slamming  the 
door. 

Anna   Vassilyevna   looked  after   him.     '  To 

the  club  ! '  she  muttered  bitterly  :  '  you  are  not 

going  to  the  club,  profligate  ?     You  've  no  one 

at  the  club  to  give  away  my  horses  to — horses 

63 


ON  THE  EVE 

from  my  own  stable — and  the  grey  ones  too  I 
My  favourite  colour.  Yes,  yes,  fickle-hearted 
man,'  she  went  on  raising  her  voice,  *  you  are  not 
going  to  the  club.  As  for  you,  Paul,'  she  pur- 
sued, getting  up,  *  I  wonder  you  're  not  ashamed. 
I  should  have  thought  you  would  not  be  so 
childish.  And  now  my  head  has  begun  to 
ache.     Where  is  Zoya,  do  you  know  > ' 

*  I  think  she 's  upstairs  in  her  room.  The 
wise  little  fox  always  hides  in  her  hole  when 
there 's  a  storm  in  the  air.' 

*Come,  please,  please!'  Anna  Vassilyevna 
began  searching  about  her.  '  Haven't  you  seen 
my  little  glass  of  grated  horse-radish  ?  Paul, 
be  so  good  as  not  to  make  me  angry  for  the 
future.' 

'How  make  you  angry,  auntie?  Give  me 
your  little  hand  to  kiss.  Your  horse-radish 
I  saw  on  the  little  table  in  the  boudoir.' 

*  Darya  always  leaves  it  about  somewhere,* 
said  Anna  Vassilyevna,  and  she  walked  away 
with  a  rustle  of  silk  skirts. 

Shubin  was  about  to  follow  her,  but  he 
stopped  on  hearing  Uvar  Ivanovitch's  drawling 
voice  behind  him. 

'  I  would  .  .  .  have  given  it  you  ...  young 
puppy,'  the  retired  cornet  brought  out  in  gasps. 

Shubin  went  up  to  him.     '  And  what  have  I 
done,  then,  most  venerable  Uvar  Ivanovitch  ?  * 
64 


ON    THE   EVE 

*  How !  you  are  young,  be  respectful.  Yes., 
indeed.' 

*  Respectful  to  whom  ?  * 

*  To  whom  ?  You  know  whom.  Ay,  grin 
away.' 

Shubin  crossed  his  arms  on  his  breast. 

*Ah,  you  type  of  the  choice  element  in 
drama,'  he  exclaimed, '  you  primeval  force  of  thi 
black  earth,  cornerstone  of  the  social  fabric  ! ' 

Uvar  Ivanovitch's  fingers  began  to  work. 
*  There,  there,  my  boy,  don't  provoke  me.' 

*  Here,'  pursued  Shubin,  *  is  a  gentleman,  not 
young  to  judge  by  appearances,  but  what 
blissful,  child-like  faith  is  still  hidden  in  him  f 
Respect!  And  do  you  know,  you  primitive 
creature,  what  Nikolai  Artemyevitch  was  in  a 
rage  with  me  for  ?  Why  I  spent  the  whole  of 
this  morning  with  him  at  his  German  woman's ; 
we  were  singing  the  three  of  us — "  Do  not  leave 
me."  You  should  have  heard  us — that  would 
have  moved  you.  We  sang  and  sang,  my  dear 
sir — and  well,  I  got  bored  ;  I  could  see  some- 
thing was  wrong,  there  was  an  alarming  ten- 
derness in  the  air.  And  I  began  to  tease  them 
both.  I  was  very  successful.  First  she  was 
angry  with  me,  then  with  him ;  and  then  he 
got  angry  with  her,  and  told  her  that  he  was 
never  happy  except  at  home,  and  he  had  a 
paradise  there ;   and  she  told  him  he  had  no 

6q  B 


ON   THE  EVE 

morals ;  and  I  murmured  "  Ach ! "  to  her  in 
German.  He  walked  off  and  I  stayed  behind ; 
he  came  here,  to  his  paradise  that 's  to  say,  and 
he  was  soon  sick  of  paradise,  so  he  set  to 
grumbling.  Well  now,  who  do  you  consider 
was  to  blame  ? ' 

'  You,  of  course,'  replied  Uvar  Ivanovitch. 

Shubin  stared  at  him.  '  May  I  venture  to 
ask  you,  most  reverend  knight-errant,'  he  began 
in  an  obsequious  voice,  *  these  enigmatical  words 
you  have  deigned  to  utter  as  the  result  of  some 
exercise  of  your  reflecting  faculties,  or  under 
the  influence  of  a  momentary  necessity  to  start 
the  vibration  in  the  air  known  as  sound  ? ' 

*  Don't  tempt  me,  I  tell  you,'  groaned  Uvar 
Ivanovitch. 

Shubin  laughed  and  ran  away.  *  Hi,'  shouted 
Uvar  Ivanovitch  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later, 
*you  there  ...  a  glass  of  spirits.' 

A  little  page  brought  the  glass  of  spirits 
and  some  salt  fish  on  a  tray.  Uvar  Ivanovitch 
slowly  took  the  glass  from  the  tray  and  gazed  a 
long  while  with  intense  attention  at  it,  as 
though  he  could  not  quite  understand  what 
it  was  he  had  in  his  hand.  Then  he  looked 
at  the  page  and  asked  him,  *  Wasn't  his  name 
Vaska  ?  '  Then  he  assumed  an  air  of  resignation, 
drank  off  the  spirit,  munched  the  herring  and 
was  slowly  proceeding  to  get  his  handkerchief 
6d 


ON   THE   EVE 

out  of  his  pocket.  But  the  page  had  long  ago 
carried  off  and  put  away  the  tray  and  the 
decanter,  eaten  up  the  remains  of  the  herring 
and  had  time  to  go  off  to  sleep,  curled  up  in 
a  great-coat  of  his  master's,  while  Uvar  Ivano- 
vitch  still  continued  to  hold  the  handkerchief 
before  him  in  his  opened  fingers,  and  with  the 
same  intense  attention  gazed  now  at  the  win- 
dow, now  at  the  floor  and  walU. 


t>7 


IX 


Shubin  went  back  to  his  room  in  the  lodge 
and  was  just  opening  a  book,  when  Nikolai 
Artemyevitch's  valet  came  cautiously  into  his 
room  and  handed  him  a  small  triangular  note, 
sealed  with  a  thick  heraldic  crest.  *  I  hope,'  he 
found  in  the  note,  'that  you  as  a  man  of 
honour  will  not  allow  yourself  to  hint  by  so 
much  as  a  single  word  at  a  certain  promissory 
note  which  was  talked  of  this  morning.  You  are 
acquainted  with  my  position  and  my  rules,  the 
insignificance  of  the  sum  in  itself  and  the  other 
circumstances ;  there  are,  in  fine,  family  secrets 
which  must  be  respected,  and  family  tranquillity 
is  something  so  sacred  that  only  etres  sans  cceur 
(among  whom  I  have  no  reason  to  reckon  you) 
would  repudiate  it !  Give  this  note  back  to 
me.— N.  S.' 

Shubin   scribbled   below   in   pencil :    *  Don't 

excite  yourself,  I  'm   not  quite   a  sneak   yet,' 

and  gave  the  note  back  to  the  man,  and  again 

began  upon    the  book.     But  it  soon  slipped 

68 


ON   THE  EVE 

out  of  his  hands.  He  looked  at  the  reddening 
sky,  at  the  two  mighty  young  pines  standing 
apart  from  the  other  trees,  thought  'by  day 
pines  are  bluish,  but  how  magnificently  green 
they  are  in  the  evening,'  and  went  out  into  the 
garden,  in  the  secret  hope  of  meeting  Elena 
there.  He  was  not  mistaken.  Before  him  on 
a  path  between  the  bushes  he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  her  dress.  He  went  after  her,  and  when  he 
was  abreast  with  her,  remarked  : 

*  Don't  look  in  my  direction,  I  'm  not  worth 
it' 

She  gave  him  a  cursory  glance,  smiled  cur- 
sorily, and  walked  on  further  into  the  depths 
of  the  garden.     Shubin  went  after  her. 

'  I  beg  you  not  to  look  at  me,'  he  began,  *  and 
then  I  address  you ;  flagrant  contradiction. 
But  what  of  that?  it's  not  the  first  time  I've 
contradicted  myself  I  have  just  recollected 
that  I  have  never  begged  your  pardon  as  I 
ought  for  my  stupid  behaviour  yesterday.  You 
are  not  angry  with  me,  Elena  Nikolaevna,  are 
you?' 

She  stood  still  and  did  not  answer  him  at 
once — not  because  she  was  angry,  but  because 
her  thoughts  were  far  away. 

*  No,'  she  said  at  last,  *  I  am  not  in  the  least 
angry.'     Shubin  bit  his  lip. 

*  What  an  absorbed  .  .  .  and  what  an  indif- 

69 


ON   THE   EVE 


,    i 


ferent  face  ! '  he  muttered  *  Elena  Nikolaevna 
he  continued,  raising  his  voice,  *  allow  me  to  tell 
you  a  little  anecdote.  I  had  a  friend,  and  this 
friend  also  had  a  friend,  who  at  first  conductea 
himself  as  befits  a  gentleman  but  afterwards 
took  to  drink.  So  one  day  early  in  the  morning, 
my  friend  meets  him  in  the  street  (and  by  that 
time,  note,  the  acquaintance  has  been  completely 
dropped)  meets  him  and  sees  he  is  drunk.  My 
friend  went  and  turned  his  back  on  him.  But 
he  ran  up  and  said,  "  I  would  not  be  angry," 
says  he,  "if  you  refused  to  recognise  me,  but 
why  should  you  turn  your  back  on  me? 
Perhaps  I  have  been  brought  to  this  through 
grief.  Peace  to  my  ashes  !  " ' 
Shubin  paused. 

*  And  is  that  all  ?  '  inquired  Elena. 
'  Yes  that 's  all.' 

*  I  don't  understand  you.  What  are  you 
hinting  at  ?  You  told  me  just  now  not  to  look 
your  way.' 

*  Yes,  and  now  I  have  told  you  that  it  *s  too 
bad  to  turn  your  back  on  me.' 

*  But  did  I  ?  '  began  Elena. 

*  Did  you  not  ? ' 

Elena  flushed  slightly  and  held  out  her  hand 
to  Shubin.     He  pressed  it  warmly. 

'  Here  you  seem  to  have  convicted  me  of  a 
bad  feeling,'  said  Elena,  *  but  your  suspicion  is 
70 


ON   THE   EVE 

unjust.  I  was  not  even  thinking  of  ^voiding 
you/ 

'Granted,  granted.  But  you  must  ac- 
knowledge that  at  that  minute  you  had  a 
thousand  ideas  in  your  head  of  which  you 
would  not  confide  one  to  me.  Eh?  I've 
spoken  the  truth,  I  'm  quite  sure?' 

'  Perhaps  so.' 

*  And  why  is  it  ?  why  } ' 

*My  ideas  are  not  clear  to  myself,'  said 
Elena. 

'  Then  it 's  just  the  time  for  confiding  them 
to  some  one  else,'  put  in  Shubin.  *  But  I  will 
tell  you  what  it  really  is.  You  have  a  bad 
opinion  of  me.' 

'I?' 

*  Yes  you  ;  you  imagine  that  everything  in  me 
is  half-humbug  because  I  am  an  artist,  that  I 
am  incapable  not  only  of  doing  anything — in 
that  you  are  very  likely  right — but  even  of  any 
genuine  deep  feeling  ;  you  think  that  I  am 
not  capable  even  of  weeping  sincerely,  that  I  'm 
a  gossip  and  a  slanderer, — and  all  because 
I  'm  an  artist.  What  luckless,  God-forsaken 
wretches  we  artists  are  after  that !  You,  for 
instance,  I  am  ready  to  adore,  and  you  don't  be- 
lieve in  my  repentance.' 

'No,    Pavel    Yakovlitch,    I    believe   in   your 
repentance  and  I  believe  in  your  tears.     But  it 
71 


ON   THE   EVE 

seems  to  me  that  even  your  repentance  amuses 
you — yes  and  your  tears  too.' 

Shubin  shuddered. 

'Well,  I  see  this  is,  as  the  doctors  say,  a 
hopeless  case,  casus  inairabilis.  There  is 
nothing  left  but  to  bow  the  head  and  submit. 
And  meanwhile,  good  Heavens,  can  it  be  true, 
can  I  possibly  be  absorbed  in  my  own  egoism 
when  there  is  a  soul  like  this  living  at  my  side  ? 
And  to  know  that  one  will  never  penetrate 
into  that  soul,  never  will  know  why  it  grieves 
and  why  it  rejoices,  what  is  working  within  it, 
what  it  desires — whither  it  is  going  .  .  .  Tell 
me/  he  said  after  a  short  silence,  '  could  you 
never  under  any  circumstances  love  an  artist  ? ' 

Elena  looked  straight  into  his  eyes. 

*  I  don't  think  so,  Pavel  Yakovlitch  ;  no.' 

*  Which  was  to  be  proved,'  said  Shubin  with 
comical  dejection.  *  After  which  I  suppose  it 
would  be  more  seemly  for  me  not  to  intrude 
on  your  solitary  walk.  A  professor  would  ask 
you  on  what  data  you  founded  your  answer 
no.  I  'm  not  a  professor  though,  but  a  baby 
according  to  your  ideas  ;  but  one  does  not  turn 
one's  back  on  a  baby,  remember.  Good-bye! 
Peace  to  my  ashes  ! ' 

Elena  was  on  the  point  of  stopping  him,  but 
after  a  moment's  thought  she  too  said  : 
'  Good-bye.' 

n 


ON    THE   EVK 

Shubin  went  out  of  the  courtyard.  At  a 
short  distance  from  the  Stahov's  house  he  was 
met  by  Bersenyev.  He  was  walking  with 
hurried  steps,  his  head  bent  and  his  hat  pushed 
back  on  his  neck. 

*  Andrei  Petrovitch  ! '  cried  Shubin. 
He  stopped. 

*  Go  on,  go  on,'  continued  Shubin,  *  I  only 
shouted,  I  won't  detain  you — and  you  'd  better 
slip  straight  into  the  garden — you  '11  find  Elena 
there,  I  fancy  she 's  waiting  for  you  .  .  .  she 's 
waiting  for  some  one  anyway.  .  .  .  Do  you 
understand  the  force  of  those  words  :  she  is 
waiting  !  And  do  you  know,  my  dear  boy,  an 
astonishing  circumstance?  Imagine,  it's  two 
years  now  that  I  have  been  living  in  the  same 
house  with  her,  I  'm  in  love  with  her,  and  it 's 
only  just  now,  this  minute,  that  I  've,  not 
understood,  but  really  seen  her.  I  have  seen 
her  and  I  lifted  up  my  hands  in  amazement. 
Don't  look  at  me,  please,  with  that  sham  sar- 
castic smile,  which  does  not  suit  your  sober 
features.  Well,  now,  I  suppose  you  want  to 
remind  me  of  Annushka.  What  of  it }  I  don't 
deny  it.  Annushkas  are  on  my  poor  level. 
And  long  life  to  all  Annushkas  and  Zoyas 
and  even  Augustina  Christianovnas !  You  go 
to  Elena  now,  and  I  will  make  my  way  to — 
Annushka,  you  fancy  ?     No,  my  dear  fellow, 

73 


ON   THE   EVE 

worse  than  that ;  to  Prince  Tchikurasov.  He 
is  a  Maecenas  of  a  Kazan-Tartar  stock,  after 
the  style  of  Volgin.  Do  you  see  this  note  of 
invitation,  these  letters,  R.  S.  V.  P.  ?  Even  in 
the  country  there 's  no  peace  for  me.  Addio  ! ' 
Bersenyev  listened  to  Shubin's  tirade  in 
silence,  looking  as  though  he  were  just  a  little 
ashamed  of  him.  Then  he  went  into  the  court- 
yard of  the  Stahovs'  house.  And  Shubin  did 
really  go  to  Prince  Tchikurasov,  to  whom  with 
the  most  cordial  air  he  began  saying  the  most 
insulting  things.  The  Maecenas  of  the  Tartars 
of  Kazan  chuckled ;  the  Maecenas's  guests 
laughed,  but  no  one  felt  merry,  and  every  one  was 
in  a  bad  temper  when  the  party  broke  up.  So 
two  gentlemen  slightly  acquainted  may  be  seen 
when  they  meet  on  the  Nevsky  Prospect  sud- 
denly grinning  at  one  another  and  pursing  up 
their  eyes  and  noses  and  cheeks,  and  then, 
directly  they  have  passed  one  another,  they 
resume  their  former  indifferent,  often  cross, 
and  generally  sickly,  expression. 


74 


Elena  met  Bersenyev  cordially,  though  not  in 
the  garden,  but  the  drawing-room,  and  at  once, 
almost  impatiently,  renewed  the  conversation 
of  the  previous  day.  She  was  alone  ;  Nikolai 
Artemyevitch  had  quietly  slipped  away.  Anna 
Vassilyevna  was  lying  down  upstairs  with  a  wet 
bandage  on  her  head.  Zoya  was  sitting  by  her, 
the  folds  of  her  skirt  arranged  precisely  about 
her,  and  her  little  hands  clasped  on  her  knees. 
Uvar  Ivanovitch  was  reposing  in  the  attic  on  a 
wide  and  comfortable  divan,  known  as  a  '  samo- 
son'  or  'dozer.'  Bersenyev  again  mentioned 
his  father ;  he  held  his  memory  sacred.  Let 
us,  too,  say  a  few  words  about  him. 

The  owner  of  eighty-two  serfs,  whom  he  set 
free  before  his  death,  an  old  Gottingen  student, 
and  disciple  of  the  *  Illuminati,'  the  author 
of  a  manuscript  work  on  *  transformations  or 
typifications  of  the  spirit  in  the  world ' — a 
work  in  which  Schelling's  philosophy,  Sweden- 
borgianism  and  republicanism  were  mingled  in 
75 


ON   THE   EVE 

the  most  original  fashion — Bersenyev's  father 
brought  him,  while  still  a  boy,  to  Moscow  im- 
mediately after  his  mother's  death,  and  at  once 
himself  undertook  his  education.  He  prepared 
himself  for  each  lesson,  exerted  himself  with 
extraordinary  conscientiousness  and  absolute 
lack  of  success  :  he  was  a  dreamer,  a  book- 
worm, and  a  mystic ;  he  spoke  in  a  dull,  hesi- 
tating voice,  used  obscure  and  roundabout 
expressions,  metaphorical  by  preference,  and 
was  shy  even  of  his  son,  whom  he  loved  passion- 
ately. It  was  not  surprising  that  his  son  was 
simply  bewildered  at  his  lessons,  and  did  not 
advance  in  the  least.  The  old  man  (he  was  al- 
most fifty,  he  had  married  late  in  life)  surmised  at 
last  that  things  were  not  going  quite  right,  and 
he  placed  his  Andrei  in  a  school.  Andrei 
began  to  learn,  but  he  was  not  removed  from 
his  father's  supervision  ;  his  father  visited  him 
unceasingly,  wearying  the  schoolmaster  to 
death  with  his  instructions  and  conversation  ; 
the  teachers,  too,  were  bored  by  his  uninvited 
visits ;  he  was  for  ever  bringing  them  some,  as 
they  said,  far  -  fetched  books  on  education. 
Even  the  schoolboys  were  embarrassed  at  the 
sight  of  the  old  man's  swarthy,  pockmarked 
face,  his  lank  figure,  invariably  clothed  in  a  sort 
of  scanty  grey  dresscoat.  The  boys  did  not 
suspect  then  that  this  grim,  unsmiling  old 
76 


ON   THE   EVE 

gentleman,  with  his  crane-like  gait  and  his  long 
nose,  was  at  heart  troubling  and  yearning  over 
each  one  of  them  almost  as  over  his  own  son. 
He  once  conceived  the  idea  of  talking  to  them 
about  Washington  ;  '  My  young  nurslings,'  he 
began,  but  at  the  first  sounds  of  his  strange 
voice  the  young  nurslings  ran  away.  The  good 
old  Gottingen  student  did  not  lie  on  a  bed  of 
roses ;  he  was  for  ever  weighed  down  by  the 
march  of  history,  by  questions  and  ideas  of 
every  kind.  When  young  Bersenyev  entered 
the  university,  his  father  used  to  drive  with  him 
to  the  lectures,  but  his  health  was  already  begin- 
ning to  break  up.  The  events  of  the  year  1848 
shook  him  to  the  foundation  (it  necessitated  the 
re-writing  of  his  whole  book),  and  he  died  in  the 
winter  of  1853,  before  his  son's  time  at  the 
university  was  over,  but  he  was  able  before- 
hand to  congratulate  him  on  his  degree,  and  to 
consecrate  him  to  the  service  of  science.  *  I 
pass  on  the  torch  to  you,'  he  said  to  him  two 
hours  before  his  death.  *  I  held  it  while  I 
could  ;  you,  too,  must  not  let  the  light  grow 
dim  before  the  end.' 

Bersenyev  talked  a  long  while  to  Elena  of 
his  father.  The  embarrassment  he  had  felt  in 
her  presence  disappeared,  and  his  lisp  was  less 
marked.  The  conversation  passed  on  to  the 
university. 

n 


ON  THE  EVE 

*  Tell  me,'  Elena  asked  him,  *  were  there  any 
remarkable  men  among  your  comrades  ? ' 

Bersenyev  was  again  reminded  of  Shubin's 
words. 

*  No,  Elena  Nikolaevna,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
there  was  not  a  single  remarkable  man  among 
us.  And,  indeed,  where  are  such  to  be  found  ! 
There  was,  they  say,  a  good  time  once  in  the 
Moscow  university!  But  not  now.  Now  it's  a 
school,  not  a  university.  I  was  not  happy  with 
my  comrades,'  he  added,  dropping  his  voice. 

'  Not  happy,'  murmured  Elena. 

'  But  I  ought,'  continued  Bersenyev,  *  to  make 
an  exception.  I  know  one  student — it's  true 
he  is  not  in  the  same  faculty — he  is  certainly  a 
remarkable  man.' 

'What  is  his  name?'  Elena  inquired  with 
interest. 

'  Insarov  Dmitri  Nikanorovitch.  He  is  a 
Bulgarian.' 

'  Not  a  Russian  ? ' 

'  No,  he  is  not  a  Russian,* 

*  Why  is  he  living  in  Moscow,  then  ?  * 

*  He  came  here  to  study.  And  do  you  know 
with  what  aim  he  is  studying  ?  He  has  a  single 
idea :  the  liberation  of  his  country.  And  his 
story  is  an  exceptional  one.  His  father  was  a 
fairly  well-to-do  merchant;  he  came  from 
Tirnova.     Tirnova  is  now  a  small  town,  but  it 

78 


ON   THE   EVE 

was  the  capital  of  Bulgaria  in  the  old  days 
when  Bulgaria  was  still  an  independent  state. 
He  traded  with  Sophia,  and  had  relations  with 
Russia  ;  his  sister,  Insarov's  aunt,  is  still  living 
in  Kiev,  married  to  a  senior  history  teacher 
in  the  gymnasium  there.  In  1835,  that  is  to 
say  eighteen  years  ago,  a  terrible  crime  was 
committed  ;  Insarov's  mother  suddenly  dis- 
appeared without  leaving  a  trace  behind  ;  a 
week  later  she  was  found  murdered.' 
Elena  shuddered.     Bersenyev  stopped. 

*  Go  on,  go  on,'  she  said. 

*  There  were  rumours  that  she  had  been  out- 
raged and  murdered  by  a  Turkish  aga ;  her 
husband,  Insarov's  father,  found  out  the  truth, 
tried  to  avenge  her,  but  only  succeeded  in 
wounding  the  aga  with  his  poniard.  .  .  .  He 
was  shot.' 

*  Shot,  and  without  a  trial  ?  * 

*  Yes.  Insarov  was  just  eight  years  old 
at  the  time.  He  remained  in  the  hands  of 
neighbours.  The  sister  heard  of  the  fate  of 
her  brother's  family,  and  wanted  to  take  the 
nephew  to  live  with  her.  They  got  him  to 
Odessa,  and  from  there  to  Kiev.  At  Kiev  he 
lived  twelve  whole  years.  That 's  how  it  is  he 
speaks  Russian  so  well,' 

*  He  speaks  Russian  ?' 

'  Just  as  we  da      When  he  was  twenty  (that 
79 


ON   THE   EVE 

was  at  the  beginning  of  the  year  1848)  he 
began  to  want  to  return  to  his  country.  He 
stayed  in  Sophia  and  Tirnova,  and  travelled 
through  the  length  and  breadth  of  Bulgaria, 
spending  two  years  there,  and  learning  his 
mother  tongue  over  again.  The  Turkish 
Government  persecuted  him,  and  he  was  cer- 
tainly exposed  to  great  dangers  during  fhose 
two  years  ;  I  once  caught  sight  of  a  broad  scar 
on  his  neck,  from  a  wound,  no  doubt ;  but  he 
does  not  like  to  talk  about  it.  He  is  reserved, 
too,  in  his  own  way.  I  have  tried  to  question 
him  about  everything,  but  I  could  get  nothing 
out  of  him.  He  answers  by  generalities.  He's 
awfully  obstinate.  He  returned  to  Russia  again 
in  1850,  to  Moscow,  with  the  intention  of  edu- 
cating himself  thoroughly,  getting  intimate  with 
Russians,  and  then  when  he  leaves  the  univer- 
sity  ' 

*  What  then  ? '  broke  in  Elena. 

*What  God  wills.  It's  hard  to  forecast  the 
future.' 

For  a  while  Elena  did  not  take  her  eyes  off 
Bersenyev. 

*  You  have  greatly  interested  me  by  what  you 
have  told  me,'  she  said.  'What  is  he  like, 
this  friend  of  yours ;  what  did  you  call  him, 
Insarov  ? ' 

'  What  shall  I  say  ?   To  my  mind,  he 's  good- 
80 


ON   THE   EVE 

looking.      But    you    will    see    him   for   your- 
self/ 

'How  so?' 

*  I  will  bring  him  here  to  see  you.  He  is 
coming  to  our  little  village  the  day  after  to- 
morrow, and  is  going  to  live  with  me  in  the 
same  lodging.* 

'  Really  ?    But  will  he  care  to  come  to  see  us?' 

*  I  should  think  so.     He  will  be  delighted.' 

*  He  isn't  proud,  then  ? ' 

*  Not  the  least.  That 's  to  say,  he  is  proud  if 
you  like,  only  not  in  the  sense  you  mean.  He 
will  never,  for  instance,  borrow  money  from 
any  one.' 

*Is  he  poor?' 

*Yes,  he  isn't  rich.  When  he  went  to  Bul- 
garia he  collected  some  relics  left  of  his  father's 
property,  and  his  aunt  helps  him  ;  but  it  all 
comes  to  very  little.' 

'  He  must  have  a  great  deal  of  character,' 
observed  Elena. 

*Yes.  He  is  a  man  of  iron.  And  at  the 
same  time  you  will  see  there  is  something  child- 
like and  frank,  with  all  his  concentration  and 
even  his  reserve.  It's  true,  his  frankness  is 
not  our  poor  sort  of  frankness — the  frankness 
of  people  who  have  absolutely  nothing  to  con- 
ceal. .  .  .  But  there,  I  will  bring  him  to  see 
you  ;  wait  a  little.* 

8i  F 


ON   THE   EVE 

'  And  isn't  he  shy  ? '  asked  Elena  again. 
'  No,  he 's  not  shy.    It 's  only  vain  people  who 
are  shy.' 

*  Why,  are  you  vain  ? ' 

He  was  confused  and  made  a  vague  gesture 
with  his  hands. 

*  You  excite  my  curiosity,'  pursued  Elena. 
'  But  tell  me,  has  he  not  taken  vengeance  on 
that  Turkish  aga  ? ' 

Bersenyev  smiled. 

'  Revenge  is  only  to  be  found  in  novels,  Elena 
Nikolaevna  ;  and,  besides,  in  twelve  years  that 
aga  may  well  be  dead.' 

*  Mr.  Insarov  has  never  said  anything,  though, 
to  you  about  it  ? ' 

*  No,  never.* 

'  Why  did  he  go  to  Sophia  >  * 
'  His  father  used  to  live  there.' 
Elena  grew  thoughtful. 

*  To  liberate  one's  country  ! '  she  said.  *  It  is 
terrible  even  to  utter  those    words,   they   are 

^  so  grand.' 

At  that  instant  Anna  Vassilyevna  came  into 
the  room,  and  the  conversation  stopped. 

Bersenyev  was  stirred  by  strange  emotions 
when  he  returned  home  that  evening.  He  did 
not  regret  his  plan  of  making  Elena  acquainted 
with  Insarov,  he  felt  the  deep  impression  made 
on  her  by  his  account  of  the  young  Bulgarian 
82 


ON  THE  EVE 

very  natural  .  .  .  had  he  not  himself  tried  to 
deepen  that  impression !  But  a  vague,  un- 
fathomable emotion  lurked  secretly  in  his 
heart ;  he  was  sad  with  a  sadness  that  had 
nothing  noble  in  it.  This  sadness  did  not  pre- 
vent him,  however,  from  setting  to  work  on  the  { 
History  of  the  Hohenstaufen,  and  beginning  to  -^ 
read  it  at  the  very  page  at  which  he  had  left  off 
the  evening  before. 


83 


XI 


Two  days  later,  Insarov  in  accordance  with 
his  promise  arrived  at  Bersenyev's  with  his 
luggage.  He  had  no  servant ;  but  without 
any  assistance  he  put  his  room  to  rights, 
arranged  the  furniture,  dusted  and  swept  the 
floor.  He  had  special  trouble  with  the  writing 
table,  which  would  not  fit  into  the  recess  in  the 
wall  assigned  for  it ;  but  Insarov,  with  the 
silent  persistence  peculiar  to  him  succeeded  in 
getting  his  own  way  with  it.  When  he  had 
settled  in,  he  asked  Bersenyev  to  let  him  pay 
him  ten  roubles  in  advance,  and  arming  him- 
self with  a  thick  stick,  set  off  to  inspect  the 
country  surrounding  his  new  abode.  He  re- 
turned three  hours  later;  and  in  response  to 
Bersenyev's  invitation  to  share  his  repast,  he 
said  that  he  would  not  refuse  to  dine  with  him 
that  day,  but  that  he  had  already  spoken  to 
the  woman  of  the  house,  and  would  get  her  to 
send  him  up  his  meals  for  the  future. 

*  Upon  my  word  ! '  said  Bersenyev,  *  you  will 
84 


ON  THE  EVE 

fare  very  badly;  that  old  body  can't  cook  a 
bit.  Why  'on't  you  dine  with  me,  we  would 
go  halves  over  the  cost' 

*  My  means  don't  allow  me  to  dine  as  you 
do,'  Insarov  replied  with  a  tranquil  smile. 

There  was  something  in  that  smile  which 
forbade  further  insistence ;  Bersenyev  did  not 
add  a  word.  After  dinner  he  proposed  to 
Insarov  that  he  should  take  him  to  the 
Stahovs  ;  but  he  replied  that  he  had  intended 
to  devote  the  evening  to  correspondence  with 
his  Bulgarians,  and  so  he  would  ask  him  to 
put  off  the  visit  to  the  Stahovs  till  next  day. 
Bersenyev  was  already  familiar  with  Insarov's 
unbending  will  ;  but  it  was  only  now  when  he 
was  under  the  same  roof  with  him,  that  he 
fully  realised  at  last  that  Insarov  would  never 
alter  any  decision,  just  in  the  same  way  as  he 
would  never  fail  to  carry  out  a  promise  he  had 
given ;  to  Bersenyev — a  Russian  to  his  finger- 
tips —  this  more  than  German  exactitude 
seemed  at  first  odd,  and  even  rather  ludi- 
crous ;  but  he  soon  got  used  to  it,  and  ended 
by  finding  it— if  not  deserving  of  respect — at 
least  very  convenient. 

The   second   day  after  his  arrival,  Insarov 

got  up  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  made  a 

round  of  almost  all  Kuntsovo,  bathed  in  the 

river,  drank  a  glass  of  cold  milk,  and  then  set 

85 


ON  THE  EVE 

to  work.  And  he  had  plenty  of  work  to  do  ; 
he  was  studying  Russian  history  and  law,  and 
political  economy,  translating  the  Bulgarian 
ballads  and  chronicles,  collecting  materials  on 
the  Eastern  Question,  and  compiling  a  Russian 
grammar  for  the  use  of  Bulgarians,  and  a  Bul- 
garian grammar  for  the  use  of  Russians.  Ber- 
senyev  went  up  to  him  and  began  to  discuss 
Feuerbach.  Insarov  listened  attentively,  made 
few  remarks,  but  to  the  point ;  it  was  clear 
from  his  observations  that  he  was  trying  to 
arrive  at  a  conclusion  as  to  whether  he  need 
study  Feuerbach,  or  whether  he  could  get  on 
without  him.  Bersenyev  turned  the  conversa- 
tion on  to  his  pursuits,  and  asked  him  if  he 
could  not  show  him  anything.  Insarov  read 
him  his  translation  of  two  or  three  Bulgarian 
ballads,  and  was  anxious  to  hear  his  opinion  of 
them.  Bersenyev  thought  the  translation  a  faith- 
ful one,  but  not  sufficiently  spirited.  Insarov 
paid  close  attention  to  his  criticism.  From  the 
ballads  Bersenyev  passed  on  to  the  present 
position  of  Bulgaria,  and  then  for  the  first  time 
he  noticed  what  a  change  came  over  Insarov 
at  the  mere  mention  of  his  country :  not  that 
his  face  flushed  nor  his  voice  grew  louder — no ! 
but  at  once  a  sense  of  force  and  intense  onward 
striving  was  expressed  in  his  whole  personality, 
the  lines  of  his  mouth  grew  harder  and  less 
86 


ON   THE  EVE 

flexible,  and  a  dull  persistent  fire  glowed  in  the 
depths  of  his  eyes.  Insarov  did  not  care  to 
enlarge  on  his  own  travels  in  his  country ;  but 
of  Bulgaria  in  general  he  talked  readily  with 
any  one.  He  talked  at  length  of  the  Turks,  of 
their  oppression,  of  the  sorrows  and  disasters  of 
his  countrymen,  and  of  their  hopes :  concen- 
trated meditation  on  a  single  ruling  passion 
could  be  heard  in  every  word  he  uttered. 

*  Ah,  well,  there 's  no  mistake  about  it,  Ber- 
senyev  was  reflecting  meanwhile,  *  that  Turkish 
aga,  I  venture  to  think,  has  been  punished  for 
his  father's  and  mother's  death.' 

Insarov  had  not  had  time  to  say  all  he 
wanted  to  say,  when  the  door  opened  and 
Shubin  made  his  appearance. 

He  came  into  the  room  with  an  almost  ex- 
aggerated air  of  ease  and  good-humour ;  Ber- 
senyev,  who  knew  him  well,  could  see  at  once 
that  something  had  been  jarring  on  him. 

*  I  will  introduce  myself  without  ceremony, 
he  began  with  a  bright  and  open  expression  on 
his  face.  *  My  name  is  Shubin  ;  I  'm  a  friend 
of  this  young  man  here'  (he  indicated  Ber- 
senyev).  'You  are  Mr.  Insarov,  of  course, 
aren't  you  ? ' 

*  I  am  Insarov.' 

*Then   give  me  your   hand   and   let  us  be 
friends.     I  don't  know  if  Bersenyev  has  talked 
87 


ON  THJS  EVE 

to  you  about  me,  but  he  has  told  me  a  great 
deal  about  you.  You  are  staying  here  ?  Capi- 
tal !  Don't  be  offended  at  my  staring  at  you 
so.  I  'm  a  sculptor  by  trade,  and  I  foresee  I 
shall  in  a  little  time  be  begging  your  permission 
to  model  your  head.' 

*My  head's  at  your  service,'  said  Insarov. 

'  What  shall  we  do  to-day,  eh  ? '  began  Shubin, 
sitting  down  suddenly  on  a  low  chair,  with  his 
knees  apart  and  his  elbows  propped  on  them. 
'  Andrei  Petrovitch,  has  your  honour  any  kind 
of  plan  for  to-day?  It's  glorious  weather; 
there 's  a  scent  of  hay  and  dried  strawberries  as 
if  one  were  drinking  strawberry-tea  for  a  cold. 
We  ought  to  get  up  some  kind  of  a  spree.  Let 
us  show  the  new  inhabitant  of  Kuntsov  all  its 
numerous  beauties.'  (Something  has  certainly 
upset  him,  Bersenyev  kept  thinking  to  himself.) 
'Well,  why  art  thou  silent,  friend  Horatio? 
Open  your  prophetic  lips.  Shall  we  go  off  on 
a  spree,  or  not  ? ' 

*I  don't  know  how  Insarov  feels,'  observed 
Bersenyev.  *  He  is  just  getting  to  work,  I 
fancy.' 

Shubin  turned  round  on  his  chair. 

*  You  want  to  work  ? '  he  inquired,  in  a  some- 
what condescending  voice. 

*No,'  answered  Insarov;  *  to-day  I  could 
give  up  to  walking.' 

88 


ON   THE  EVE 

*Ah!'  commented  Shubin.  'Well,  that's 
delightful.  Run  along,  my  friend,  Andrei 
Petrovitch,  put  a  hat  on  your  learned  head, 
and  let  us  go  where  our  eyes  lead  us.  Our 
eyes  are  young — they  may  lead  us  far.  I 
know  a  very  repulsive  little  restaurant,  where 
they  will  give  us  a  very  beastly  little  dinner ; 
but  we  shall  be  very  jolly.     Come  along.' 

Half  an  hour  later  they  were  all  three  walk- 
ing along  the  bank  of  the  Moskva.  Insarov 
had  a  rather  queer  cap  with  flaps,  over  which 
Shubin  fell  into  not  very  spontaneous  raptures. 
Insarov  walked  without  haste,  and  looked 
about,  breathing,  talking,  and  smiling  with  the 
same  tranquillity ;  he  was  giving  this  day  up 
to  pleasure,  and  enjoying  it  to  the  utmost. 
*  just  as  well-behaved  boys  walk  out  on  Sun- 
days,' Shubin  whispered  in  Bersenyev's  ear, 
Shubin  himself  played  the  fool  a  great  deal, 
ran  in  front,  threw  himself  into  the  attitudes  of 
famous  statues,  and  turned  somersaults  on  the 
grass;  Insarov's  tranquillity  did  not  exactly 
irritate  him,  but  it  spurred  him  on  to  playing 
antics.  *  What  a  fidget  you  are,  Frenchman  ! ' 
Bersenyev  said  twice  to  him.  *Yes,  I  am 
French,  half  French,'  Shubin  answered,  *and 
you  hold  the  happy  medium  between  jest  and 
earnest,  as  a  waiter  once  said  to  me.'  The 
young  men  turned  away  from  the  river  and 
89 


ON   THE  EVE 

went  along  a  deep  and  narrow  ravine  between 
two  walls  of  tall  golden  rye ;  a  bluish  shadow 
was  cast  on  them  from  the  rye  on  one  side ; 
the  flashing  sunlight  seemed  to  glide  over  the 
tops  of  the  ears;  the  larks  were  singing,  the 
quails  were  calling:  on  all  sides  was  the 
brilliant  green  of  the  grass  ;  a  warm  breeze 
stirred  and  lifted  the  leaves  and  shook  the 
heads  of  the  flowers.  After  prolonged  wander- 
ings, with  rest  and  chat  between  (Shubin  had 
even  tried  to  play  leap-frog  with  a  toothless 
peasant  they  met,  who  did  nothing  but  laugh, 
whatever  the  gentlemen  might  do  to  him), 
the  young  men  reached  the  *  repulsive  little ' 
restaurant :  the  waiter  almost  knocked  each  of 
them  over,  and  did  really  provide  them  with  a 
very  bad  dinner  with  a  sort  of  Balkan  wine, 
which  did  not,  however,  prevent  them  from 
being  very  jolly,  as  Shubin  had  foretold  ;  he 
himself  was  the  loudest  and  the  least  jolly.  He 
drank  to  the  health  of  the  incomprehensible 
but  great  Venelin,  the  health  of  the  Bulgarian 
king  Kuma,  Huma,  or  Hroma,  who  lived  some- 
where  about  the  time  of  Adam. 

*  In   the    ninth    century,'    Insarov   corrected 
him. 

*  In  the  ninth  century  ?  *  cried  Shubin.     *  Oh, 
how  delightful ! ' 

Bersenyev  noticed  that  among  all  his  pranks, 
90 


ON   THE  EVE 

and  jests  and  gaiety,  Shubin  was  constantly,  as 
it  were,  examining  Insarov ;  he  was  sounding 
him  and  was  in  inward  excitement,  but 
Insarov  remained  as  before,  calm  and  straight- 
forward. 

At  last  they  returned  home,  changed  their 
dress,  and  resolved  to  finish  the  day  as  they 
had  begun  it,  by  going  that  evening  to  the 
Stahovs.  Shubin  ran  on  before  them  to  an- 
nounce their  arrival. 


91 


XII 


*The  conquering  hero  Insarov  will  be  here 
directly!'  he  shouted  triumphantly,  going  into 
the  Stahovs'  drawing-room,  where  there  hap- 
pened at  the  instant  to  be  only  Elena  and  Zoya. 

*  Werf*  inquired  Zoya  in  German.  When 
she  was  taken  unawares  she  always  used  her 
native  language.  Elena  drew  herself  up. 
Shubin  looked  at  her  with  a  playful  smile  on 
his  lips.     She  felt  annoyed,  but  said  nothing. 

'You  heard,'  he  repeated,  *Mr.  Insarov  is 
coming  here.' 

*  I  heard,'  she  replied  ;  *  and  I  heard  how  you 
spoke  of  him.  I  am  surprised  at  you,  indeed 
Mr.  Insarov  has  not  yet  set  foot  in  the  house,  and 
you  already  think  fit  to  turn  him  into  ridicule.' 

Shubin  was  crestfallen  at  once. 

'  You  are  right,  you  are  always  right,  Elena 
Nikolaevna,'  he  muttered  ;  '  but  I  meant 
nothing,  on  my  honour.  We  have  been  walk- 
ing together  with  him  the  whole  day,  and  he 's 
a  capital  fellow,  I  assure  you.' 

03 


ON  THE  EVE 

'  I  didn*t  ask  your  opinion  about  that,*  com- 
mented Elena,  getting  up. 

*  Is  Mr.  Insarov  a  young  man  ? '  asked 
Zoya. 

'He  is  a  hundred  and  forty- four,'  replied 
Shubin  with  an  air  of  vexation. 

The  page  announced  the  arrival  of  the  two 
friends.  They  came  in.  Bersenyev  introduced 
Insarov.  Elena  asked  them  to  sit  down,  and 
sat  down  herself,  while  Zoya  went  off  upstairs  ; 
she  had  to  inform  Anna  Vassilyevna  of  their 
arrival.  A  conversation  was  begun  of  a  rather 
insignificant  kind,  like  all  first  conversations. 
Shubin  was  silently  watching  from  a  corner, 
but  there  was  nothing  to  watch.  In  Elena  he 
detected  signs  of  repressed  annoyance  against 
him — Shubin — and  that  was  all.  He  looked  at 
Bersenyev  and  at  Insarov,  and  compared  their 
faces  from  a  sculptor's  point  of  view.  *  They 
are  neither  of  them  good-looking,'  he  thought, 
*  the  Bulgarian  has  a  characteristic  face — there 
now  it 's  in  a  good  light ;  the  Great-Russian  is 
better  adapted  for  painting ;  there  are  no  lines, 
there  's  expression.  But,  I  dare  say,  one  might 
fall  in  love  with  either  of  them.  She  is  not  in 
love  yet,  but  she  will  fall  in  love  with  Bersenyev,' 
he  decided  to  himself.  Anna  Vassilyevna  made 
her  appearance  in  the  drawing-room,  and  the 
conversation  took  the  tone  peculiar  to  summer 
Q3 


ON  TPIB  EVE 

villas — not  the  country-house  tone  but  the 
peculiar  summer  visitor  tone.  It  was  a  con- 
versation diversified  by  plenty  of  subjects ; 
but  broken  by  short  rather  wearisome  pauses 
every  three  minutes.  In  one  of  these  pauses 
Anna  Vassilyevna  turned  to  Zoya.  Shubin 
understood  her  silent  hint,  and  drew  a  long 
face,  while  Zoya  sat  down  to  the  piano,  and 
played  and  sang  all  her  pieces  through.  Uvar 
Ivanovitch  showed  himself  for  an  instant  in  the 
doorway,  but  he  beat  a  retreat,  convulsively 
twitching  his  fingers.  Then  tea  was  served  ; 
and  then  the  whole  party  went  out  into  the 
garden.  ...  It  began  to  grow  dark  outside, 
and  the  guests  took  leave. 

Insarov  had  really  made  less  impression  on 
Elena  than  she  had  expected,  or,  speaking  more 
exactly,  he  had  not  made  the  impression  she 
had  expected.  She  liked  his  directness  and 
unconstraint,  and  she  liked  his  face ;  but  the 
whole  character  of  Insarov — with  his  calm  firm- 
ness and  everyday  simplicity — did  not  somehow 
accord  with  the  image  formed  in  her  brain  by 
Bersenyev's  account  of  him.  Elena,  though  she 
did  not  herself  suspect  it,  had  anticipated  some- 
thing more  fateful.  *  But,'  she  reflected,  *he 
spoke  very  little  to-day,  and  I  am  myself  to  blame 
for  it ;  I  did  not  question  him,  we  must  have 
patience  till  next  time  .  .  .  and  his  eyes  are 
94 


ON   THE  EVE 

expressive,  honest  eyes/  She  felt  that  she  had 
no  disposition  to  humble  herself  before  him, 
but  rather  to  hold  out  her  hand  to  him  in 
friendly  equality,  and  she  was  puzzled  ;  this  was 
not   how  she  had  fancied   men,  like   Insarov, 

*  heroes.'  This  last  word  reminded  her  of 
Shubin,  and  she  grew  hot  and  angry,  as  she  lay 
in  her  bed. 

*  How  did  you  like  your  new  acquaintances?* 
Bersenyev  inquired  of  Insarov  on  their  way 
home. 

*  I  liked  them  very  much,'  answered  Insarov, 

•  especially  the  daughter.  She  must  be  a  nice 
girl.  She  is  excitable,  but  in  her  it 's  a  fine  kind 
of  excitability.' 

*  You  must  go  and  see  them  a  little  oftener,' 
observed  Bersenyev. 

*  Yes,  I  must,'  said  Insarov  ;  and  he  said 
nothing  more  all  the  way  home.  He  at  once 
shut  himself  up  in  his  room,  but  his  candle  was 
burning  long  after  midnight. 

Bersenyev  had  had  time  to  read  a  page 
of  Raumer,  when  a  handful  of  fine  gravel 
came  rattling  on  his  window-pane.  He  could 
not  help  starting  ;  opening  the  window  he  saw 
Shubin  as  white  as  a  sheet. 

'What  an  irrepressible  fellow  you  are,  you 
night  moth '  Bersenyev  was  beginning. 

'  Sh — '  Shubin  cut  him  short ;  *  I  have  come 
05 


ON   THE   EVE 

to  you  in  secret,  as  Max  went  to  Agatha 
I  absolutely  must  say  a  few  words  to  you 
alone/ 

*  Come  into  the  room  then/ 

*No,  that's  not  necessary/  replied  Shubin, 
and  he  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  window-sill, 
*it's  better  fun  like  this,  more  as  if  we  were 
in  Spain.  To  begin  with,  I  congratulate  you, 
you're  at  a  premium  now.  Your  belauded, 
exceptional  man  has  quite  missed  fire.  That 
I  '11  guarantee.  And  to  prove  my  impartiality, 
listen — here's  the  sum  and  substance  of  Mr. 
Insarov.  No  talents,  none,  no  poetry,  any 
amount  of  capacity  for  work,  an  immense 
memory,  an  intellect  not  deep  nor  varied,  but 
sound  and  quick,  dry  as  dust,  and  force,  and 
even  the  gift  of  the  gab  when  the  talk 's  about 
his — between  ourselves  let  it  be  said — tedious 
Bulgaria.  What!  do  you  say  I  am  unjust? 
One  remark  more  :  you  '11  never  come  to  Chris- 
tian names  with  him,  and  none  ever  has  been 
on  such  terms  with  him.  I,  of  course,  as  an 
artist,  am  hateful  to  him  ;  and  I  am  proud  of 
it.  Dry  as  dust,  dry  as  dust,  but  he  can 
crush  all  of  us  to  powder.  He's  devoted 
to  his  country — not  like  our  empty  patriots 
who  fawn  on  the  people;  pour  into  us,  they 
say,  thou  living  water!  But,  of  course,  his 
problem  is  easier,  more  intelligible:  be  has 
96 


ON   THE   EVE 

only  to  drive  the  Turks  out,  a  mighty  tabk! 
But  all  these  qualities,  thank  God,  don't 
please  women.  There's  no  fascination,  no 
charm  about  them,  as  there  is  about  you 
and  me.' 

'Why  do  you  bring  me  in?'  muttered  Ber- 
senyev.  *And  you  are  wrong  in  all  the  rest; 
you  are  not  in  the  least  hateful  to  him,  and  with 
his  own  countrymen  he  is  on  Christian  name 
terms — that  I  know.' 

*.That'sa  different  matter  I  For  them  he's 
a  hero  ;  but,  to  make  a  confession,  I  have  a  very 
different  idea  of  a  hero  ;  a  hero  ought  not  to 
be  able  to  talk  ;  a  hero  should  roar  like  a  bull, 
but  when  he  butts  with  his  horns,  the  walls 
shake.  He  ought  not  to  know  himself  why 
he  butts  at  things,  but  just  to  butt  at  them. 
But,  perhaps,  in  our  days  heroes  of  a  different 
stamp  are  needed.' 

*Why  are  you  so  taken  up  with  Insarov?' 
asked  Bersenyev.  *  Can  you  have  run  here  only 
to  describe  his  character  to  me  ?' 

*  I  came  here,'  began  Shubin,  *  because  I  was 
very  miserable  at  home.' 

*  Oh,  that 's  it !  Don't  you  want  to  have  a 
cry  again?' 

*  You  may  laugh  !  I  came  here  because  I  'm 
at  my  wits'  end,  because  I  am  devoured  by 
despair,  anger,  jealousy.' 

97  G 


ON   THE   EVE 

*  Jealousy  ?  of  whom  ?* 

*  Of  you  and  him  and  every  one.  I  'm  tor- 
tured by  the  thought  that  if  I  had  understood 
her  sooner,  if  I  had  set  to  work  cleverly — 
But  what 's  the  use  of  talking  !  It  must  end 
by  my  always  laughing,  playing  the  fool,  turn- 
ing things  into  ridicule  as  she  says,  and  then 
setting  to  and  strangling  myself.' 

'  Stuff,  you  won't  strangle  yourself/  observed 
Bersenyev. 

*  On  such  a  night,  of  course  not ;  but  only  let 
me  live  on  till  the  autumn.  On  such  a  night 
people  do  die  too,  but  only  of  happiness.  Ah, 
happiness !  Every  shadow  that  stretches  across 
the  road  from  every  tree  seems  whispering  now : 
"  I  know  where  there  is  happiness  .  .  .  shall  I 
tell  you  ?"  I  would  ask  you  to  come  for  a  walk, 
only  now  you  're  under  the  influence  of  prose. 
Go  to  sleep,  and  may  your  dreams  be  visited 
by  mathematical  figures  !  My  heart  is  breaking. 
You,  worthy  gentlemen,  see  a  man  laughing, 
and  that  means  to  your  notions  he  's  all  right ; 
you  can  prove  to  him  that  he's  humbugging 
himself,  that 's  to  say,  he  is  not  suffering.  .  .  . 
God  bless  you  !* 

Shubin  abruptly  left  the  window.      *Annu- 

shka!'  Bersenyev  felt  an  impulse  to  shout  after 

him,  but  he  restrained   himself;    Shubin   had 

really  been  white  with  emotion.     Two  minutes 

98 


ON   THE  EVE 


later,  Bersenyev  even  caught  the  sound  of  sob- 
bing ;  he  got  up  and  opened  the  window ; 
everything  was  still,  only  somewhere  in  the  dis- 
tance some  one — a  passing  peasant,  probably — 
was  humming  '  The  Plain  of  Mozdok.' 


XIII 

During  the  first  fortnight  of  Insarov's  stay  in 
the  Kuntsovo  neighbourhood,  he  did  not  visit 
the  Stahovs  more  than  four  or  five  times ; 
Bersenyev  went  to  see  them  every  day.  Elena 
was  always  pleased  to  see  him,  lively  and 
interesting  talk  always  sprang  up  between 
them,  and  yet  he  often  went  home  with  a 
gloomy  face.  Shubin  scarcely  showed  himself; 
he  was  working  with  feverish  energy  at  his  art ; 
he  either  stayed  locked  up  in  his  room,  from 
which  he  would  emerge  in  a  blouse,  smeared  all 
over  with  clay,  or  else  he  spent  days  in  Mos- 
cow where  he  had  a  studio,  to  which  models 
and  Italian  sculptors,  his  friends  and  teachers, 
used  to  come  to  see  him.  Elena  did  not  once 
succeed  in  talking  with  Insarov,  as  she  would 
have  liked  to  do ;  in  his  absence  she  prepared 
questions  to  ask  him  about  many  things,  but 
when  he  came  she  felt  ashamed  of  her  plans. 
Insarov's  very  tranquillity  embarrassed  her ; 
it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  not  the  right  to 

lOO 


ON   THE   EVE 

force  him  to  speak  out ;  and  she  resolved  lo 
wait ;  for  all  that,  she  felt  that  at  every  visit 
however  trivial  might  be  the  words  that  passed 
between  them,  he  attracted  her  more  and  more  ; 
but  she  never  happened  to  be  left  alone  with 
him — and  to  grow  intimate  with  any  one, 
one  must  have  at  least  one  conversation  alone 
with  him.  She  talked  a  great  deal  about 
him  to  Bersenyev.  Bersenyev  realised  that 
Elena's  imagination  had  been  struck  by  In- 
sarov,  and  was  glad  that  his  friend  had  not 
•missed  fire'  as  Shubin  had  asserted.  He  told 
her  cordially  all  he  knew  of  him  down  to  the 
minutest  details  (we  often,  when  we  want  to 
please  some  one,  bring  our  friends  into  our  con- 
versation, hardly  ever  suspecting  that  we  are 
praising  ourselves  in  that  way),  and  only  at 
times,  when  Elena's  pale  cheeks  flushed  a  little 
and  her  eyes  grew  bright  and  wide,  he  felt  a 
pang  in  his  heart  of  that  evil  pain  which  he  had 
felt  before. 

One  day  Bersenyev  came  to  the  Stahovs,  not 
at  the  customary  time,  but  at  eleven  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  Elena  came  down  tf;  him  in 
the  parlour. 

'  Fancy,'  he  began  with  a  coiistrained  smile, 
*our  Insarov  has  disappeared.' 

*  Disappeared  ? '  said  Elena. 

'  He  has  disappeared.     The  day  before  yes- 

lOI 


ON   THE  EVB 

terday  he  went  off  somewhere  and  nothing  has 
been  seen  of  him  since.' 

*  He  did  not  tell  you  where  he  was  going  ?' 
*No.' 

Elena  sank  into  a  chair. 

*  He  has  most  likely  gone  to  Moscow,'  she 
commented,  trying  to  seem  indifferent  and  at 
the  same  time  wondering  that  she  should  try 
to  seem  indifferent. 

*  I  don't  think  so,'  rejoined  Bersenyev.  *  He 
did  not  go  alone.' 

*  With  whom  then?' 

*Two  people  of  some  sort — his  countrymen 
they  must  have  been — came  to  him  the  day 
before  yesterday,  before  dinner.' 

*  Bulgarians  !  what  makes  you  think  so  ? ' 

'  Why  as  far  as  I  could  hear,  they  talked  to 
him  in  some  language  I  did  not  know,  but 
Slavonic  .  .  .  You  are  always  saying,  Elena 
Nikolaevna,  that  there 's  so  little  mystery  about 
Insarov ;  what  could  be  more  mysterious  than 
this  visit?  Imagine,  they  came  to  him — and 
then  there  was  shouting  and  quarrelling,  and 
such  savage,  angry  disputing.  .  •  .  And  he 
shouted  too.* 

'  He  shouted  too?* 

*Yes.  He  shouted  at  them.  They  seemed 
to  be  accusing  each  other.  And  if  you  could 
have  had  a  peep  at  these  visitors.    They  had 

I02 


ON   THE   EVE 

swarthy,  heavy  faces  with  high  cheek  bones 
and  hook  noses,  both  about  forty  years  old, 
shabbily  dressed,  hot  and  dusty,  looking  like 
workmen — not  workmen,  and  not  gentlemen — 
goodness  knows  what  sort  of  people  they  were.' 

*  And  he  went  away  with  them  ?  ' 

'Yes.  He  gave  them  something  to  eat  and 
went  off  with  them.  The  woman  of  the  house 
told  me  they  ate  a  whole  huge  pot  of  porridge 
between  the  two  of  them.  They  outdid 
one  another,  she  said,  and  gobbled  it  up  like 
wolves.'  . 

Elena  gave  a  faint  smile. 

'You  will  sec,'  she  said,  'all  this  will  be 
explained  into  something  very  prosaic' 

*  I  hope  it  may !  But  you  need  not  use  that 
word.  There  is  nothing  prosaic  about  Insa- 
rov,  though  Shubin  does  maintain ' 

'  Shubin ! '  Elena  broke  in,  shrugging  her 
shoulders.  '  But  you  must  confess  these  two 
good  men  gobbling  up  porridge ' 

*  Even  .  Themistocles  had  his  supper  on  the 
eve  of  Salamis,'  observed  Bersenyev  with  a 
smile. 

*  Yes  ;  but  then  there  was  a  battle  next  day. 
Any  way  you  will  let  me  know  when  he  comes 
back,'  said  Elena,  and  she  tried  to  change  the 
subject,  but  the  conversation  made  little  pro- 
gress,    Zoya  made  her  appearance  and  began 

103 


ON   THE   EVE 

walking  about  the  room  on  tip-toe,  giving  them 
thereby  to  understand  that  Anna  Vassilyevna 
was  not  yet  awake. 

Bersenyev  went  away. 

In  the  evening  of  the  same  day  a  note  from 
him  was  brought  to  Elena.  *  He  has  come 
back,'  he  wrote  to  her,  '  sunburnt  and  dusty  to 
his  very  eyebrows  ;  but  where  and  why  he  went 
I  don't  know  ;  won't  you  find  out?' 

'Won't  you  find  out!'  Elena  whispered, 
'  as  though  he  talked  to  nie  i  * 


XIV 

TflE  next  day,  at  two  o'cloclf,  Elena  was  stand- 
ing in  the  garden  before  a  small  .kennel,  where 
she  was  rearing  two  puppies.  (A  gardener 
had  found  them  deserted  under  a  hedge,  and 
brought  them  to  the  young  mistress,  being 
told  by  the  laundry-maids  that  she  took  pity 
on  beasts  of  all  sorts.  He  was  not  wrong  in 
his  reckoning.  Elena  had  given  him  a  quarter- 
rouble.)  She  looked  into  the  kennel,  assured 
herself  that  the  puppies  were  alive  and  well, 
and  that  they  had  been  provided  with  fresh 
straw,  turned  round,  and  almost  uttered  a  cry  ; 
down  an  alley  straight  towards  her  was  walking 
Insarov,  alone. 

'Good-morning,*  he  said,  coming  up  to  her 
and  taking  off  his  cap.  She  noticed  that  he 
certainly  had  got  much  sunburnt  during  the 
last  three  days.  '  I  meant  to  have  come  here 
with  Andrei  Petrovitch,  but  he  was  rather  slow 
in  starting :  so  here  I  am  without  him.  There 
105 


ON   THE  EVE 

IS  no  one  in  your  house ;  they  are  all  asleep  or 
out  of  doors,  so  I  came  on  here/ 

*  You  seem  to  be  apologising,'  replied  Elena. 
•  There 's  no  need  to  do  that.  We  are  always 
very  glad  to  see  you.  Let  us  sit  here  on  the 
bench  in  the  shade.' 

She  seated  herself.  Insarov  sat  down  near 
her. 

*  You  have  not  been  at  home  these  last  days, 
I  think  ?  '  she  began. 

'  No,'  he  answered.  *  I  went  away.  Did 
A.ndrei  Petrovitch  tell  you  ? ' 

Insarov  looked  at  her,  smiled,  and  began 
playing  with  his  cap.  When  he  smiled,  his 
eyes  blinked,  and  his  lips  puckered  up,  which 
gave  him  a  very  good-humoured  appearance. 

*  Andrei  Petrovitch  most  likely  told  you  too 
that  I  went  away  with  some — unattractive 
people,'  he  said,  still  smiling. 

Elena  was  a  little  confused,  but  she  felt  at 
once  that  Insarov  must  always  be  told  the 
truth. 

*  Yes,'  she  said  decisively. 

'What  did  you  think  of  me?'  he  asked  her 
suddenly. 

Elena  raised  her  eyes  to  him. 

*  I  thought,'  she  said,  *  I  thought  that  you 
always  know  what  you  're  doing,  and  you  are 
incapable  of  doing  anything  wrong.' 

io6 


ON   THE  EVE 

*  Well— thanks  for  that.  You  see,  Elena 
Nikolaevna/  he  began,  coming  closer  to  her  in 
a  confidential  way,  '  there  is  a  little  family  of 
our  people  here  ;  among  us  there  are  men  of 
little  culture  ;  but  all  are  warmly  devoted  to 
the  common  cause.  Unluckily,  one  can  never 
get  on  without  dissensions,  and  they  all  know 
me,  and  trust  me  ;  so  they  sent  for  me  to  settle 
a  dispute.     I  went' 

*  Was  it  far  from  here  ? ' 

*  I  went  about  fifty  miles,  to  the  Troitsky 
district.  There,  near  the  monastery,  there 
are  some  of  our  people.  At  any  rate,  my 
trouble  was  not  thrown  away ;  I  settled  the 
matter.' 

'And  had  you  much  difficulty?* 

'  Yes.  One  was  obstinate  through  everything. 
He  did  not  want  to  give  back  the  money.' 

'  What  ?  Was  the  dispute  over  money  ? ' 

'  Yes  ;  and  a  small  sum  of  money  too.  What 
did  you  suppose  ? ' 

*  And  you  travelled  over  fifty  miles  for  such 
trifling  matters?    Wasted  three  days?' 

*  They  are  not  trifling  matters,  Elena  Nikola- 
evna, when  my  countrymen  are  involved.  It 
would  be  wicked  to  refuse  in  such  cases.  I  see 
here  that  you  don't  refuse  help  even  to  puppies, 
and  I  think  well  of  you  for  it.  And  as  for  the 
time  I  have  lost,  that 's  no  great  harm  ;  I  will 

107 


ON   THE   EVE 

make  it  up  later.     Our  time  does  not  belong 
to  us.' 

*  To  whom  does  it  belong  then  ?  * 

'  Why,  to  all  who  need  us.  I  have  told  you 
all  this  on  the  spur  of  the  m  jment,  because  I 
value  your  good  opinion.  ^  can  fancy  how 
Andrei  Petrovitch  must  have  made  you 
wonder ! ' 

*  You  value  my  good  opinion,'  said  Elena,  in 
an  undertone,  'why?' 

Insarov  smiled  again. 

*  Because  you  are  a  good  young  lady,  not  an 
aristocrat  .  .  .  that 's  all' 

A  short  silence  followed. 

'  Dmitri  Nikanorovitch,'  said  Elena,  *  do  you 
know  that  this  is  the  first  time  you  have  been 
so  unreserved  with  me  ? ' 

*  How's  that?  I  think  I  have  alw  ys  said 
everything  I  thought  to  you.' 

*No,  this  is  the  first  time,  and  I  am  very 
glad,  and  I  too  want  to  be  open  with  yo-i. 
May  I?' 

Insarov  began  to  laugh  and  said  :    *  You  may. 

*  I  warn  you  I  am  very  inquisitive.' 

*  Never  mind,  tell  me.' 

'  Andrei  Petrovitch  has  told  me  a  great  deal 
of  your  life,  of  your  youth.  I  know  of  one 
event,  one  awful  event.  ...  I  know  you  travelled 
afterwards   in   your  own   country.  .  .  .   Don't 


ON   THE   EVE 

answer  me  for  goodness  sake,  if  you  think  my 
question  indiscreet,  but  I  am  fretted  by  one 
idea.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  did  you  meet  that  man  ? ' 

Elena  caught  her  breath.  She  felt  both 
shame  and  dismay  at  her  own  audacity. 
Insarov  looked  at  her  intently,  slightly  knitting 
his  brows,  and  stroking  his  chin  with  his  fingers. 

'  Elena  Nikolaevna,'  he  began  at  last,  and  his 
voice  was  much  lower  than  usual,  which  almost 
frightened  Elena,  '  I  understand  what  man  you 
are  referring  to.  No,  I  did  not  meet  him,  and 
thank  God  I  did  not  1  I  did  not  try  to  find 
him.  I  did  not  try  to  find  him  :  not  because  I 
did  not  think  I  had  a  right  to  kill  him — I  would 
kill  him  with  a  very  easy  conscience — but  be- 
cause now  is  not  the  time  for  private  revenge, 
when  we  are  concerned  with  the  general  national 
vengeance — or  no,  that  is  not  the  right  word 
— when  we  are  concerned  with  the  liberation 
of  a  people.  The  one  would  be  a  hindrance  to 
the  other.  In  its  own  time  that,  too,  will  come 
.  ,  .  that  too  will  come,'  he  repeated,  and  he 
shook  his  head. 

Elena  looked  at  him  from  the  side. 

'You  love  your  country  very  dearly?'  she 
articulated  timidly. 

'That  remains  to  be  shown,'  he  answered. 
*When  one  of  us  dies  for  her,  then  one  can  say 
he  loved  his  country.' 

109 


ON   THE  EVE 

*  So  that,  if  you  were  cut  off  all  chance  of  re- 
turning to  Bulgaria,'  continued  Elena,  'would 
you  be  very  unhappy  in  Russia  ?  * 

Insarov  looked  down. 

*  I  think  I  could  not  bear  that,'  he  said. 

'  Tell  me,'  Elena  began  again,  *  is  it  difficult  to 
learn  Bulgarian  ? ' 

*  Not  at  all.  It 's  a  disgrace  to  a  Russian  not 
to  know  Bulgarian.  A  Russian  ought  to  know 
all  the  Slavonic  dialects.  Would  you  like  me  to 
bring  you  some  Bulgarian  books?  You  will 
see  how  easy  it  is.  What  ballads  we  have  ! 
equal  to  the  Servian.  But  stop  a  minute,  I  will 
translate  to  you  one  of  them.  It  is  about  .  .  . 
But  you  know  a  little  of  our  history  at  least, 
don't  you  ? ' 

*  No,  I  know  nothing  of  it,'  answered 
Elena. 

'  Wait  a  little  and  I  will  bring  you  a  book. 
You  will  learn  the  principal  facts  at  least  from 
it.  Listen  to  the  ballad  then.  .  .  .  But  I  had 
better  bring  you  a  written  translation,  though. 
I  am  sure  you  will  love  us,  you  love  all  the  op- 
pressed. If  you  knew  what  a  land  of  plenty 
ours  is !  And,  meanwhile,  it  has  been  down- 
trodden, it  has  been  ravaged,'  he  went  on,  with 
an  involuntary  movement  of  his  arm,  and  his 
face  darkened  ;  *  we  have  been  robbed  of  every- 
thing ;  everything,  our  churches,  our  laws,  our 
no 


ON   THE   EVE 

lands  ;  the  unclean  Turks  drive  us  like  cattle, 
butcher  us ' 

•  Dmitri  Nikanorovitch  !  *  cried  Elena. 
He  stopped. 

*  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  can't  speak  of  this 
coolly.  But  you  asked  me  just  now  whether  I 
love  my  country.  What  else  can  one  love  on 
earth  ?  What  is  the  one  thing  unchanging,  what 
is  above  all  doubts,  what  is  it — next  to  God — 
one  must  believe  in  ?  And  when  that  country 
needs.  .  .  .  Think  ;  the  poorest  peasant,  the 
poorest  beggar  in  Bulgaria,  and  I  have  the 
same  desire.  All  of  us  have  one  aim.  You 
can  understand  what  strength,  what  confidence 
that  gives ! ' 

Insarov  was  silent  for  an  instant;  then  he 
began  again  to  talk  of  Bulgaria.  Elena  listened 
to  him  with  absorbed,  profound,  and  mournful 
attention.  When  he  had  finished,  she  asked 
him  once  more : 

'  Then  you  would  not  stay  in  Russia  for  any- 
thing?' 

And  when  he  went  away,  for  a  long  time  she 
gazed  after  him.  On  that  day  he  had  become 
a  different  man  for  her.  When  she  walked 
back  with  him  through  the  garden,  he  was  no 
longer  the  man  she  had  met  two  hours  before. 

From  that  day  he  began  to  come  more  and 
more  often,and  Bersenyev  less  and  less  often.  A 
III 


ON    THE   EVE 

Strange  feeling  began  to  grow  up  between  the 
two  friends,  of  which  they  were  both  conscious, 
but  to  which  they  could  not  give  a  name,  and 
which  they  feared  to  analyse,  in  this  way  a 
month  passed. 


f» 


XV 

Anna  Vassilyevna,  as  the  reader  knows  al- 
ready, liked  staying  at  home  ;  but  at  times 
she  manifested,  quite  unexpectedly,  an  irre- 
sistible longing  for  somethingout  of  the  common, 
some  extraordinary  partie  du  plaisir ;  and  the 
more  troublesome  the  partie  du  plaisir  was,  the 
more  preparations  and  arrangements  it  required, 
and  the  greater  Anna  Vassilyevna's  own  agita- 
tion over  it,  the  more  pleasure  it  gave  her.  If 
this  mood  came  upon  her  in  winter,  she  would 
order  two  or  three  boxes  to  be  taken  side 
by  side,  and,  inviting  all  her  acquaintances, 
would  set  off  to  the  theatre  or  even  to  a  mas- 
querade ;  in  summer  she  would  drive  for  a  trip 
out  of  town  to  some  spot  as  far  off  as  pos- 
sible. The  next  day  she  would  complain  of  a 
headache,  groan  and  keep  her  bed  ;  but  within 
two  months  the  same  craving  for  something 
*  out  of  the  common '  would  break  out  in  her 
again.  That  was  just  what  happened  now. 
Some   one   chanced  to   refer  to  the  beautiful 

\\\  H 


ON   THE   EVE 

scenery  of  Tsaritsino  before  her,  and  Anna 
Vassilyevna  suddenly  announced  an  intention 
of  driving  to  Tsaritsino  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. The  household  was  thrown  into  a 
state  of  bustle ;  a  messenger  galloped  off  to 
Moscow  for  Nikolai  Artemyevitch  ;  with  him 
galloped  the  butler  to  buy  wines,  pies,  and  all 
sorts  of  provisions  ;  Shubin  was  commissioned 
to  hire  an  open  carriage — the  coach  alone  was 
not  enough — and  to  order  relays  of  horses  to 
be  ready ;  a  page  was  twice  despatched  to  Ber- 
senyev  and  Insarov  with  two  different  notes  of 
invitation,  written  by  Zoya,  the  first  in  Russian, 
the  second  in  French  ;  Anna  Vassilyevna  her- 
self was  busy  over  the  dresses  of  the  young 
ladies  for  the  expedition.  Meanwhile  the  parUe 
du  plaisir  was  very  near  coming  to  grief. 
Nikolai  Artem}'evitch  arrived  from  Moscow  in 
a  sour,  ill-natured,  frondeurish  frame  of  nrind. 
He  was  still  sulky  with  Augustina  Christian- 
ovna  ;  and  when  he  heard  what  the  plan  was, 
he  flatly  declared  that  he  would  not  go ;  that  to 
go  trotting  from  Kuntsovo  to  Moscow  and  from 
Moscow  to  Tsaritsino,  and  then  from  Tsarit- 
sino again  to  Moscow,  from  Moscow  again  to 
Kuntsovo,  was  a  piece  of  folly  ;  and, '  in  fact,'  he 
added, '  let  them  first  prove  to  my  satisfaction, 
that  one  can  be  merrier  on  one  spot  of  the 
globe  than  another  spot,  and  I  will  go.'  This, 
114 


ON  THE  EVE 

of  course,  no  one  could  prove  to  his  satisfac- 
tion, and  Anna  Vassilyevna  was  ready  to 
throw  up  the  partie  du  plaisir  for  lack  of  a 
solid  escort ;  but  she  recollected  Uvar  Ivano- 
vitch,  and  in  her  distress  she  sent  to  his  room 
for  him,  saying:  'a  drowning  man  catches  at 
straws.'  They  waked  him  up  ;  he  came  down, 
listened  in  silence  to  Anna  Vassilyevna's  pro- 
position, and,  to  the  general  astonishment,  with 
a  flourish  of  his  fingers,  he  consented  to  go. 
Anna  Vassilyevna  kissed  him  on  the  cheek, 
and  called  him  a  darling ;  Nikolai  Artemye- 
vitch  smiled  contemptuously  and  said :  quelle 
bourde  I  (he  liked  on  occasions  to  make  use  of 
a  '  smart '  French  word)  ;  and  the  following 
morning  the  coach  and  the  open  carriage,  well- 
packed,  rolled  out  of  the  Stahovs'  court-yard. 
In  the  coach  were  the  ladies,  a  maid,  and  Ber- 
senyev ;  Insarov  was  seated  on  the  box ;  and 
in  the  open  carriage  were  Uvar  Ivanovitch  and 
Shubin.  Uvar  Ivanovitch  had  himself  bec- 
koned Shubin  to  him  ;  he  knew  that  he  would 
tease  him  the  whole  way,  but  there  existed  a 
queer  sort  of  attachment,  marked  by  abusive 
candour,  between  the 'primeval  force' and  the 
young  artist  On  this  occasion,  however, 
Shubin  left  his  fat  friend  in  peace  ;  he  was 
absent  -  minded,  silent,  and  gentle. 

The  sun  stood  high  in  a  cloudless  blue  sky 
115 


ON   THE   EVE 

u'hen  the  carriage  drove  up  to  the  ruins  of 
Tsaritsino  Castle,  which  looked  gloomy  and 
menacing,  even  at  mid-day.  The  whole  party 
stepped  out  on  to  the  grass,  and  at  once  made 
a  move  towards  the  garden.  In  front  went 
Elena  and  Zoya  with  Insarov ;  Anna  Vas- 
silyevna,  with  an  expression  of  perfect  happi- 
ness on  her  face,  walked  behind  them,  lean- 
ing on  the  arm  of  Uvar  Ivanovitch.  He 
waddled  along  panting,  his  new  straw  hat  cut 
his  forehead,  and  his  feet  twinged  in  his 
boots,  but  he  was  content ;  Shubin  and  Ber- 
senyev  brought  up  the  rear.  '  We  will  form 
the  reserve,  my  dear  boy,  like  veterans/  whis- 
pered Shubin  to  Bersenyev.  '  Bulgaria 's  in  it 
now !  *  he  added,  indicating  Elena  with  his 
eyebrows. 

The  weather  was  glorious.  Everything  around 
was  flowering,  humming,  singing  ;  in  the  dis- 
tance shone  the  waters  of  the  lakes  ;  a  light- 
hearted  holiday  mood  took  possession  of  all. 
*  Oh,  how  beautiful ;  oh,  how  beautiful !  *  Anna 
Vassilyevna  repeated  incessantly  ;  Uvar  Ivano- 
vitch kept  nodding  his  head  approvingly  in 
response  to  her  enthusiastic  exclamations, 
and  once  even  articulated :  *  To  be  sure ! 
to  be  sure ! '  From  time  to  time  Elena  ex- 
changed a  few  words  with  Insarov  ;  Zoya  held 
the  brim  of  her  large  hat  with  two  fingers 
ii6 


ON   THE   EVE 

while  her  little  feet,  shod  in  light  grey  shoes 
with  rounded  toes,  peeped  coquettishly  out 
from  under  her  pink  barege  dress ;  she  kept 
looking   to   each   side   and    then   behind   her. 

*  Hey  ! '  cried  Shubin  suddenly  in  a  low  voice, 
'Zoya  Nikitishna  is  on  the  lookout,  it  seems. 
I  will  go  to  her.  Elena  Nikolaevna  despises 
me  now,  while  you,  Andrei  Petrovitch,  she 
esteems,  which  comes  to  the  same  thing.  I 
am  going ;  I  'm  tired  of  being  glum.  I 
should  advise  you,  my  dear  fellow,  to  do  some 
botanising ;  that 's  the  best  thing  you  could  hit 
on  in  your  position  ;  it  might  be  useful,  too, 
from  a  scientific  point  of  view.  Farewell ! ' 
Shubin  ran  up  to  Zoya,  offered  her  his  arm,  and 
saying  :  '  Ihre  Hand,  Madamel  caught  hold  of 
her  hand,  and  pushed  on  ahead  with  her.  Elena 
stopped,  called  to  Bersenyev,  and  also  took  his 
arm,  but  continued  talking  to  Insarov.  She 
asked  him  the  words  for  lily-of-the-valley, 
clover,  oak,  lime,  and  so  on  in  his  language.  .  . 

*  Bulgaria 's  in  it ! '  thought  poor  Andrei  Petro- 
vitch. 

Suddenly  a  shriek  was  heard  in  front ;  every 
one  looked  up.  Shubin's  cigar-case  fell  into  a 
bush,  flung  by  Zoya's  hand.  'Wait  a  minute, 
I  '11  pay  you  out ! '  he  shouted,  as  he  crept  into 
the  bushes ;  he  found  his  cigar-case,  and  was 
returning  to  Zoya ;  but  he  had  hardly  reached 
117 


ON    THE   EVE 

her  side  when  again  his  cigar-case  was  sent 
flying  across  the  road.  Five  times  this  trick 
was  repeated,  he  kept  laughing  and  threatening 
her,  but  Zoya  only  smiled  slyly  and  drew  her- 
self together,  like  a  little  cat.  At  last  he 
snatched  her  fingers,  and  squeezed  them  so 
tightly  that  she  shrieked,  and  for  a  long  time 
afterwards  breathed  on  her  hand,  pretending  to 
be  angry,  while  he  murmured  something  in  her 
ears. 

'  Mischievous  things,  young  people,'  Anna 
Vassilyevna  observed  gaily  to  Uvar  Ivano- 
vitch. 

He  flourished  his  fingers  in  reply. 

'  What  a  girl  Zoya  Nikitishna  is  I '  said  Ber- 
senyev  to  Elena. 

'And  Shubin?  What  of  him?'  she 
answered. 

Meanwhile  the  whole  party  went  into  the 
arbour,  well  known  as  Pleasant  View  arbour, 
and  stopped  to  admire  the  view  of  the  Tsaritsino 
lakes.  They  stretched  one  behind  the  other  for 
several  miles,  overshadowed  by  thick  woods. 
The  bright  green  grass,  which  covered  the  hill 
sloping  down  to  the  largest  lake,  gave  the  water 
itself  an  extraordinarily  vivid  emerald  colour 
Even  at  the  water's  edge  not  a  ripple  stirred  the 
smooth  surface.  One  might  fancy  it  a  solid 
mass  of  glass  lying  heavy  and  shining  in  a  huge 
Ii8 


ON  THE  EVE 

font ;  the  sky  seemed  to  drop  into  its  depths, 
while  the  leafy  trees  gazed  motionless  into  its 
transparent  bosom.  All  were  absorbed  in  long 
and  silent  admiration  of  the  view  ;  even  Shubin 
was  still  ;  even  Zoya  was  impressed.  At  last, 
all  with  one  mind,  began  to  wish  to  go  upon 
the  water.  Shubin,  Insarov,  and  Bersenyev 
raced  each  other  over  the  grass.  They  suc- 
ceeded in  finding  a  large  painted  boat  and  two 
boatmen,  and  beckoned  to  the  ladies.  The 
ladies  stepped  into  the  boat ;  Uvar  Ivanovitch 
cautiously  lowered  himself  into  it  after  them. 
Great  was  the  mirth  while  he  got  in  and  took 
his  seat.  '  Look  out,  master,  don't  drown  us/ 
observed  one  of  the  boatmen,  a  snubnosed 
young  fellow  in  a  gay  print  shirt.  *  Get  along, 
you  swell ! '  said  Uvar  Ivanovitch.  The 
boat  pushed  off.  The  young  men  took  up 
the  oars,  but  Insarov  was  the  only  one  of  them 
who  could  row.  Shubin  suggested  that  they 
should  sing  some  Russian  song  in  chorus,  and 
struck  up:  'Down  the  river  Volga'  .  .  .  Bersen- 
yev, Zoya,  and  even  Anna  Vassilyevna,  joined 
in — Insarov  could  not  sing — but  they  did  not 
keep  together  ;  at  the  third  verse  the  singers 
were  all  wrong.  Only  Bersenyev  tried  to  go  on 
in  the  bass,  '  Nothing  on  the  waves  is  seen,'  but 
he,  too,  was  soon  in  difficulties.  The  boatmen 
looked  at  one  another  and  grinned  in  silence. 
119 


ON   THE   EVE 

*  Eh  ? '  said  Shubin,  turning  to  them,  *  the  gentle- 
folks can't  sing,  you  say  ? '  The  boy  in  the 
print  shirt  only  shook  his  head.  '  Wait  a  little 
snubnose,'  retorted  Shubin,  *  we  will  show  you. 
Zoya  Nikitishna,  sing  us  Le  lac  of  Niedermeyer. 
Stop  rowing  ! '  The  wet  oars  stood  still,  lifted 
in  the  air  like  wings,  and  their  splash  died 
away  with  a  tuneful  drip ;  the  boat  drifted  on 
a  little,  then  stood  still,  rocking  lightly  on  the 
water  like  a  swan.  Zoya  affected  to  refuse  at 
first.  .  .  .  ^  A  lions!  said  Anna  Vassilyevna  geni- 
ally. .  .  .  Zoya  took  off  her  hat  and  began  to 
sing  :  *  O  lac^  Vannh  a  peine  afini  sa  carriere! 

Her  small,  but  pure  voice,  seemed  to  dart 
over  the  surface  of  the  lake  ;  every  word  echoed 
far  off  in  the  woods  ;  it  sounded  as  though  some 
one  were  singing  there,  too,  in  a  distinct,  but 
mysterious  and  unearthly  voice.  When  Zoya 
finished,  a  loud  bravo  was  heard  from  an  arbour 
near  the  bank,  from  which  emerged  several 
red-faced  Germans  who  were  picnicking  at 
Tsaritsino.  Several  of  them  had  their  coats  off, 
their  ties,  and  even  their  waistcoats  ;  and  they 
shouted  ^bis  r  with  such  unmannerly  insistence 
that  Anna  Vassilyevna  told  the  boatmen  to 
row  as  quickly  as  possible  to  the  other  end  of 
the  lake.  But  bei'ore  the  boat  reached  the  bank, 
Uvar  Ivanovitch  once  more  succeeded  in  sur- 
prising his  friends ;  having  noticed  that  in  one 


ON   THE   EVE 

part  of  the  wood  the  echo  repeated  every  sound 
with  peculiar  distinctness,  he  suddenly  began 
to  call  like  a  quail.  At  first  every  one  was 
startled,  but  they  listened  directly  with  real 
pleasure,  especially  as  Uvar  Ivanovitch  imitated 
the  quail's  cry  with  great  correctness.  Spurred 
on  by  this,  he  tried  mewing  like  a  cat ;  but  this 
did  not  go  off  so  well  ;  and  after  one  more 
quail-call,  he  looked  at  them  all  and  stopped. 
Shubin  threw  himself  on  him  to  kiss  him  ; 
he  pushed  him  off.  At  that  instant  the  boat 
touched  the  bank,  and  all  the  party  got  out  and 
went  on  shore. 

Meanwhile  the  coachman,  with  the  groom 
and  the  maid,  had  brought  the  baskets  out  of 
the  coach,  and  made  dinner  ready  on  the  grass 
under  the  old  lime-trees.  They  sat  down  round 
the  outspread  tablecloth,  and  fell  upon  the  pies 
and  other  dainties.  They  all  had  excellent 
appetites,  while  Anna  Vassilyevna,  with  un- 
flagging hospitality,  kept  urging  the  guests  to 
eat  more,  assuring  them  that  nothing  was 
more  wholesome  than  eating  in  the  open  air. 
She  even  encouraged  Uvar  Ivanovitch  with 
such  assurances.  *  Don't  trouble  about  me  !  *  he 
grunted  with  his  mouth  full.  '  Such  a  lovely 
day  is  a  God  -  send,  indeed  !  *  she  repeated 
constantly.  One  would  not  have  known  her ; 
she  seemed  fully  twenty  years  younger.     Ber- 

121 


ON  THE  EVE 

senvev  said  as  much  to  her.  *  Yes,  yes.*  she 
said  ;  *  I  could  hold  my  own  with  any  one  in 
my  day.'  Shubin  attached  himself  to  Zoya, 
and  kept  pouring  her  out  wine ;  she  refused 
it,  he  pressed  her,  and  finished  by  drinking 
the  glass  himself,  and  again  pressing  her  to 
take  another ;  he  also  declared  that  he  longed 
to  lay  his  head  on  her  knee ;  she  would  on  no 
account  permit  him  *  such  a  liberty.'  Elena 
seemed  the  most  serious  of  the  party,  but  in 
her  heart  there  was  a  wonderful  sense  of  peace, 
such  as  she  had  not  known  for  long.  She 
felt  filled  with  boundless  goodwill  and  kind- 
ness, and  wanted  to  keep  not  only  Insarov, 
but  Bersenyev  too,  always  at  her  side.  .  .  . 
Andrei  Petrovitch  dimly  understood  what  this 
meant,  and  secretly  he  sighed. 

The  hours  flew  by  ;  the  evening  was  coming 
on.  Anna  Vassilyevna  suddenly  took  alarm. 
'  Ah,  my  dear  friends,  how  late  it  is  ! '  she  cried. 
*  All  good  things  must  have  an  end  ;  it 's  time 
to  go  home .'  She  began  bustling  about,  and 
they  all  hastened  to  get  up  and  walk  towards 
the  castle,  where  the  carriages  were.  As  they 
walked  past  the  lakes,  they  stopped  to  admire 
Tsaritsino  for  the  last  time.  The  landscape  on 
ail  sides  was  glowing  with  the  vivid  hues  of 
early  evening  ;  the  sky  was  red,  the  leaves  were 
flashing  with  changing  colours  as  they  stirred 

122 


ON   THE   EVE 

in  the  rising  wind  ;  the  distant  waters  shone 
in  liquid  gold ;  the  reddish  turrets  and  arbours 
scattered  about  the  garden  stood  out  sharply 
against  the  dark  green  of  the  trees.  *  Fare- 
well, Tsaritsino,  we  shall  not  forget  to-day's 
excursion ! '  observed  Anna  Vassilyevna.  .  .  . 
But  at  that  instant,  and  as  though  in  confir- 
mation of  her  words,  a  strange  incident  oc- 
curred, which  certainly  was  not  likely  to  be 
forgotten. 

This  was  what  happened.  Anna  Vassilyevna 
had  hardly  sent  her  farewell  greeting  to  Tsarit- 
sino, when  suddenly,  a  few  paces  from  her, 
behind  a  high  bush  of  lilac,  were  heard  con- 
fused exclamations,  shouts,  and  laughter ;  and 
a  whole  mob  of  disorderly  men,  the  same 
devotees  of  song  who  had  so  energetically 
applauded  Zoya,  burst  out  on  the  path.  These 
musical  gentlemen  seemed  excessively  elevated. 
They  stopped  at  the  sight  of  the  ladies ;  but 
one  of  them,  a  man  of  immense  height,  with  a 
bull  neck  and  a  bull's  goggle  eyeSj  separated 
from  his  companions,  and,  bowing  clumsily  and 
staggering  unsteadily  in  his  gait,  approached 
A.nna  Vassilyevna,  who  was  petrified  with 
alarm. 

'  Bonzhoor^  madamel  he  said  thickly,  *  how  are 
you?' 

Anna  Vassilyevna  started  back. 
123 


ON   THE   EVE 

*Why  wouldn't  you,'  continued  the  giant  in 
vile  Russian,  'sing  again  when  our  party 
shouted  bis^  and  bravo  ? ' 

*Yes,  why?'  came  from  the  ranks  of  his 
comrades. 

Insarov  was  about  to  step  forward,  but 
Shubin  stopped  him,  and  himself  screened 
Anna  Vassilyevna. 

*  Allow  me,'  he  began,  *  honoured  stranger, 
to  express  to  you  the  heartfelt  amazement, 
into  which  you  have  thrown  all  of  us  by  your 
conduct.  You  belong,  as  far  as  I  can  judge,  to 
the  Saxon  branch  of  the  Caucasian  race ; 
consequently  we  are  bound  to  assume  your 
acquaintance  with  the  customs  of  society,  yet 
you  address  a  lady  to  whom  you  have  not  been 
introduced.  I  assure  you  that  I  individually 
should  be  delighted  another  time  to  make  your 
acquaintance,  since  I  observe  in  you  a  phe- 
nomenal development  of  the  muscles,  biceps, 
triceps  and  deltoid,  so  that,  as  a  sculptor,  I 
should  esteem  it  a  genuine  happiness  to  have 
you  for  a  model ;  but  on  this  occasion  kindly 
leave  us  alone.' 

The  '  honoured  stranger '  listened  to  Shubin's 
speech,  his  head  held  contemptuously  on  one 
side  and  his  arms  akimbo. 

*  I  don't  understand  what  you  say,'  he  com- 
mented  at   last.      '  Do    you   suppose    I  'm    a 

124 


ON   THE   EVE 

cobbler  or   a   watchmaker  ?      Hey  I      I  'm    an 
officer,  an  official,  so  there.' 

*  I  don't  doubt  that '  Shubin  was  begin- 
ning. 

'  What  I  say  is,'  continued  the  stranger, 
putting  him  aside  with  his  powerful  arm,  like  a 
twig  out  of  the  path — *  why  didn't  you  sing 
again  when  we  shouted  bis  ?  And  I  '11  go  away 
directly,  this  minute,  only  I  tell  you  what  I 
want,  this  frdulein,  not  that  madam,  no,  not 
her,  but  this  one  or  that  one  (he  pointed  to 
Elena  and  Zoya)  must  give  me  einen  Kuss,  as 
we  say  in  German,  a  kiss,  in  fact ;  eh  ?  That 's 
not  much  to  ask.' 

'Einen  Kuss^  that's  not  much,'  came  again 
from  the  ranks  of  his  companions,  ''  Ih!  der 
Stakrmnenter  l^  cried  one  tipsy  German, 
bursting  with  laughter. 

Zoya  clutched  at  Insarov's  arm,  but  he  broke 
away  from  her,  and  stood  directly  facing  the 
insolent  giant. 

*You  will  please  to  move  off,'  he  said  in  a 
voice  not  loud  but  sharp. 

The  German  gave  a  heavy  laugh,  'Move  off.? 
Well,  I  like  that.  Can't  I  walk  where  I  please? 
Move  off?     Why  should  I  move  off?' 

*  Because  you  have  dared  to  annoy  a  lady,* 
said  Insarov,  and  suddenly  he  turned  white, 
'  because  you  're  drunk.' 

125 


ON   THE   EVE 

*  Eh  ?  me  drunk  ?  Hear  what  he  says.' 
Horen  Sie  daSy  Herr  Provisor  ?  I  'm  an  officer, 
and  he  dares  .  .  ,  Now  I  demand  satisfaction  \ 
Einen  Kuss  will  ich  ! ' 

*  If  you  come  another  step  nearer '  began 

Insarov. 

'Well?     What  then' 

*  I  '11  throw  you  in  the  water !  * 

*In  the  water?  Herr  Je !  Is  that  all? 
Well,  let  us  see  that,  that  would  be  very  curious, 
too.' 

The  officer  lifted  his  fists  and  moved  for- 
ward, but  suddenly  something  extraordinary 
happened.  He  uttered  an  exclamation,  his 
whole  bulky  person  staggered,  rose  from  the 
ground,  his  legs  kicking  in  the  air,  and  before 
the  ladies  had  time  to  shriek,  before  any  one 
had  time  to  realise  how  it  had  happened,  the 
officer's  massive  figure  went  plop  with  a  heavy 
splash,  and  at  once  disappeared  under  the  eddy- 
ing water. 

*  Oh  ! '  screamed  the  ladies  with  one  voice. 

*  Mein  Gott!  '  was  heard  from  the  other  side. 
An  instant  passed  ...  and   a   round  head, 

all  plastered  over  with  wet  hair,  showed  above 
water,  it  was  blowing  bubbles,  this  head  ;  and 
floundering  with  two  hands  just  at  its  very  lips. 
'  He  will  be  drowned,  save  him  !  save  him !  * 
cried  Anna  Vassilyevna  to  Insarov,  who  was 
126 


ON   THE   EVE 

standing  with  his  legs  apart  on  the  bank, 
breathing  heavily. 

'  He  will  swim  out,'  he  answered  with  con- 
temptuous and  unsympathetic  indifierence. 
'  Let  us  go  on/  he  added,  taking  Anna  Vassil- 
yevna  by  the  arm.  *  Come,  Uvar  Ivanovitch, 
Elena  Nikolaevna.' 

*  A — a — o — o '  was  heard  at  that  instant,  the 
plaint  of  the  hapless  German  who  had  managed 
to  get  hold  of  the  rushes  on  the  bank. 

They  all  followed  Insarov,  and  had  to  pass 
close  by  the  party.  But,  deprived  of  their 
leader,  the  rowdies  were  subdued  and  did  not 
utter  a  word  ;  but  one,  the  boldest  of  them, 
muttered,  shaking  his  head  menacingly:  'All 
right  .  .  .  we  shall  see  though  .  .  .  after  that'; 
but  one  of  the  others  even  took  his  hat  off. 
Insarov  struck  them  as  formidable,  and  rightly 
so  ;  something  evil,  something  dangerous  could 
be  seen  in  his  face.  The  Germans  hastened  to 
pull  out  their  comrade,  who,  directly  he  had  his 
feet  on  dry  ground,  broke  into  tearful  abuse 
and  shouted  after  the  'Russian  scoundrels,' 
that  he  would  make  a  complaint,  that  he  would 
go  to  Count  Von  Kizerits  himself,  and  so  on. 

But  the  '  Russian  scoundrels '  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  his  vociferations,  and  hurried  on  as  fast 
as  they  could  to  the  castle.  They  were  all 
silent,  as  they  walked  through  the  garden, 
127 


ON   THE   EVE 

though  Anna  Vassilyevna  sighed  a  Httle.  But 
when  they  reached  the  carriages  and  stood 
still,  they  broke  into  an  irrepressible,  irresistible 
fit  of  Homeric  laughter.  First  Shubin  ex- 
ploded, shrieking  as  if  he  were  mad,  Bersenyev 
followed  with  his  gurgling  guffaw,  then  Zoya 
fell  into  thin  tinkling  little  trills,  Anna  Vassil- 
yevna too  suddenly  broke  down,  Elena  could 
not  help  smiling,  and  even  Insarov  at  last 
could  not  resist  it.  But  the  loudest,  longest, 
most  persistent  laugh  was  Uvar  Ivanovitch's ; 
he  laughed  till  his  sides  ached,  till  he  choked 
and  panted.  He  would  calm  down  a  little, 
then  would  murmur  through  his  tears :  *  I — 
thought — what's  that  splash — and  there — he 
— went  plop.'  And  with  the  last  word, 
forced  out  with  convulsive  effort,  his  whole 
frame  was  shaking  with  another  burst  of 
laughter.  Zoya  made  him  worse.  '  I  saw  his 
legs,'  she  said,  '  kicking  in  the  air.'  '  Yes,  yes,' 
gasped  Uvar  Ivanovitch,  'his  legs,  his  legs — 
and  then  splash  ! — there  he  plopped  in  ! ' 

*  And  how  did  Mr.  Insarov  manage  it  ?  why 
the  German  was  three  times  his  size?'  said 
Zoya. 

'  I  '11    tell   you,'   answered    Uvar  Ivanovitch, 
rubbing  his  eyes,  *  I  saw  ;  with  one  arm  about 
his   waist,   he   tripped   him    up,   and   he   went 
plop  !     I  heard — a  splash — there  he  went.' 
128 


ON    THE    EVE 

Long  after  the  carriages  had  started,  long 
after  the  castle  of  Tsaritsino  was  out  of  sight, 
Uvar  Ivanovitch  was  still  unable  to  regain  his 
composure.  Shubin,  who  was  again  with  him 
in  the  carriage,  began  to  cry  shame  on  him  at 
last. 

Insarov  felt  ashamed.  He  sat  in  the  coach 
facing  Elena  (Bersenyev  had  taken  his  seat 
on  the  box),  and  he  said  nothing ;  she  too  was 
silent.  He  thought  that  she  was  condemning 
his  action  ;  but  she  did  not  condemn  him.  She 
had  been  scared  at  the  first  minute ;  then  the 
expression  of  his  face  had  impressed  her  ;  after- 
wards she  pondered  on  it  all.  It  was  not  quite 
clear  to  her  what  the  nature  of  her  reflections 
was.  The  emotion  she  had  felt  during  the 
day  had  passed  away ;  that  she  realised  ;  but 
its  place  had  been  taken  by  another  feeling 
which  she  did  not  yet  fully  understand.  The 
partie  de  plaisir  had  been  prolonged  too  late ; 
insensibly  evening  passed  into  night.  The 
carriage  rolled  swiftly  along,  now  beside  ripen- 
ing cornfields,  where  the  air  was  heavy  and 
fragrant  with  the  smell  of  wheat ;  now  beside 
wide  meadows,  from  which  a  sudden  wave  of 
freshness  blew  lightly  in  the  face.  The  sky 
seemed  to  lie  like  smoke  over  the  horizon.  At 
last  the  moon  rose,  dark  and  red.  Anna  Vas- 
silyevna  was  dozing;    Zoya  had    poked   her 

139  I 


ON   THE   EVE 

head  out  of  window  and  was  staring  at  the  road. 
It  occurred  to  Elena  at  last  that  she  had  not 
spoken  to  Insarov  for  more  than  an  hour.  She 
turned  to  him  with  a  trifling  question ;  he  at  once 
answered  her,  delighted.  Dim  sounds  began  stir- 
ring indistinctly  in  the  air,  as  though  thousands 
of  voices  were  talking  in  the  distance  ;  Moscow 
was  coming  to  meet  them.  Lights  twinkled 
afar  off;  they  grew  more  and  more  frequent; 
at  last  there  was  the  grating  of  the  cobbles  under 
their  wheels.  Anna  Vassilyevna  awoke,  every 
one  in  the  carriage  began  talking,  though  no  one 
could  hear  what  was  said ;  everything  was 
drowned  in  the  rattle  of  the  cobbles  under  the 
two  carriages,  and  the  hoofs  of  the  eight  horses. 
Long  and  wearisome  seemed  the  journey  from 
Moscow  to  Kuntsovo  ;  all  the  party  were  asleep 
or  silent,  leaning  with  their  heads  pressed  into 
their  respective  corners;  Elena  did  not  close  her 
eyes ;  she  kept  them  fixed  on  Insarov's  dimly- 
outlined  figure.  A  mood  of  sadness  had  come 
upon  Shubin  ;  the  breeze  was  blowing  into  his 
eyes  and  irritating  him ;  he  retired  into  the  collar 
of  his  cloak  and  was  on  the  point  of  tears.  Uvar 
Ivanovitch  was  snoring  blissfully,  rocking  from 
side  to  side.  The  carriages  came  to  a  stand- 
still at  last.  Two  men-servants  lifted  Anna 
Vassilyevna  out  of  the  carriage;  she  was  all 
to  pieces,  and  at  parting  from  her  fellow 
130 


ON  THE  EVB 

travellers,  announced  that  she  was  *  nearly  dead'; 
they  began  thanking  her,  but  she  only  repeated, 
'  nearly  dead.'  Elena  for  the  first  time  pressed 
Insarov's  hand  at  parting,  and  for  a  long  while 
she  sat  at  her  window  before  undressing ;  Shubin 
seized  an  opportunity  to  whisper  to  Bersenyev : 

*  There,  isn't  he  a  hero ;  he  can  pitch  drunken 
Germans  into  the  river !  * 

'While  you  didn't  even  do  that,'  retorted 
Bersenyev,  and  he  started  homewards  with 
Insarov. 

The  dawn  was  already  showing  in  the  sky 
when  the  two  friends  reached  their  lodging. 
The  sun  had  not  yet  risen,  but  already  the  chill 
of  daybreak  was  in  the  air,  a  grey  dew  covered 
the  grass,  and  the  first  larks  were  trilling  high, 
high  up  in  the  shadowy  infinity  of  air,  whence 
like  a  solitary  eye  looked  out  the  great,  last 
star 


ni 


XVI 

Soon  after  her  acquaintance  with  Insarov, 
Elena  (for  the  fifth  or  sixth  time)  began  a 
diary.     Here  are  some  extracts  from  it : 

'June.  .  .  .  Andrei  Petrovitch  brings  me 
books,  but  I  can't  read  them.  I  'm  ashamed  to 
confess  it  to  him  ;  but  I  don't  like  to  give  back 
the  books,  tell  lies,  say  I  have  read  them.  I 
feel  that  would  mortify  him.  He  is  always 
watching  me.  He  seems  devoted  to  me.  A 
very  good  man,  Andrei  Petrovitch.  .  .  .  What 
is  it  I  want  ?  Why  is  my  heart  so  heavy,  so 
oppressed  ?  Why  do  I  watch  the  birds  with 
envy  as  they  fly  past  ?  I  feel  that  I  could  fly 
with  them,  fly,  where  I  don't  know,  but  far  from 
here.  And  isn't  that  desire  sinful?  I  have 
here  mother,  father,  home.  Don't  I  love  them  ? 
No,  I  don't  love  them,  as  I  should  like  to  love. 
It's  dreadful  to  put  that  in  words,  but  it's 
the  truth.  Perhaps  I  am  a  great  sinner ; 
perhaps  that  is  why  I  am  so  sad,  why  I  have 
no   peace.      Some   hand   seems    laid    on    me, 

132 


ON   THE  EVE 

weighing  me  down,  as  though  I  were  in  prison, 
and  the  walls  would  fall  on  me  directly.  Why 
is  it  others  don't  feel  this  ?  Whom  shall  I  love, 
if  I  am  cold  to  my  own  people?  It's  clear, 
papa  is  right ;  he  reproaches  me  for  loving 
nothing  but  cats  and  dogs.  I  must  think  about 
that.  I  pray  very  little ;  I  must  pray.  .  .  .  Ah, 
I  think  I  should  know  how  to  love !  .  .  .  I  am 
still  shy  with  Mr.  Insarov.  I  don't  know 
why ;  I  believe  I  'm  not  schoolgirlish  generally, 
and  he  is  so  simple  and  kind.  Sometimes  he 
has  a  very  serious  face.  He  can't  give  much 
thought  to  us.  I  feel  that,  and  am  ashamed  in 
a  way  to  take  up  his  time.  With  Andrei  Pet- 
rovitch  it 's  quite  a  different  thing.  I  am  ready  to 
chat  with  him  the  whole  day  long.  But  he  too 
always  talks  of  Insarov.  And  such  terrible  facts 
he  tells  me  about  him  !  I  saw  him  in  a  dream 
last  night  with  a  dagger  in  his  hand.  And  he 
seemed  to  say  to  me,  "  I  will  kill  you  and  1 
will  kill  myself!*'     What  silliness! 

'Oh,  if  some  one  would  say  to  me  :  "There, 
that's  what  you  must  do  !  "  Being  good — isn't 
much  ;  doing  good  .  .  .  yes,  that 's  the  great 
thing  in  life.  But  how  is  one  to  do  good  ?  Oh, 
if  I  could  learn  to  control  myself !  I  don't  know 
why  I  am  so  often  thinking  of  Mr.  Insarov. 
When  he  comes  and  sits  and  listens  intently, 
but  makes  no  effort,  no  exertion  himself,  I  look/ 
133 


ON  THE  EVE 

at  him,  and  feel  pleased,  and  that 's  all,  and  when 
he  goes,  I  always  go  over  his  words,  and  feel 
vexed  with  myself,  and  upset  even.  I  can't 
tell  why.  (He  speaks  French  badly  and  isn't 
ashamed  of  it — I  like  that.)  I  always  think  a 
lot  about  new  people,  though.  As  I  talked  to 
him,  I  suddenly  was  reminded  of  our  butler, 
Vassily,  who  rescued  an  old  cripple  out  of  a 
hut  that  was  on  fire,  and  was  almost  killed 
himself  Papa  called  him  a  brave  fellow, 
mamma  gave  him  five  roubles,  and  I  felt  as 
though  I  could  fall  at  his  feet.  And  he  had 
a  simple  face — stupid-looking  even — and  he 
took  to  drink  later  on.  .  .  . 

*  I  gave  a  penny  to-day  to  a  beggar  woman, 
and  she  said  to  me,  "Why  are  you  so  sorrowful?" 
I  never  suspected  I  looked  sorrowful.  I  think 
J  it  must  come  from  being  alone,  always  alone, 
for  better,  for  worse  !  There  is  no  one  to  stretch 
out  a  hand  to  me.  Those  who  come  to  me,  I 
don't  want ;  and  those  I  would  choose — pass 
me  by. 

*.  .  .  I  don't  know  what 's  the  matter  with  me 
to-day ;  my  head  is  confused,  I  want  to  fall  on 
my  knees  and  beg  and  pray  for  mercy.  I  don't 
know  by  whom  or  how,  but  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
being  tortured,  and  inwardly  I  am  .shrieking 
in  revolt ;  I  weep  and  can't  be  quiet.  .  .  .  O 
my  God,  subdue  these  outbreaks  in  me !  Thou 
134 


ON   THE   EVE 

alone  canst  aid  me,  all  else  is  useless ;  my 
miserable  alms-giving,  my  studies  can  do 
nothing,  nothing,  nothing  to  help  me.  I 
should  like  to  go  out  as  a  servant  somewhere, 
really  ;  that  would  do  me  good. 

'  What  is  my  youth  for,  what  am  I  living  for, 
\  why  have  I  a  soul,  what  is  it  all  for  ? 

*.  .  .  Insarov,  Mr.  Insarov — upon  my  word  I 
don't  know  how  to  write — still  interests  me, 
I  should  like  to  know  what  he  has  within,  in 
his  soul  ?  He  seems  so  open,  so  easy  to  talk 
to,  but  I  can  see  nothing.  Sometimes  he  looks 
at  me  with  such  searching  eyes — or  is  that  my 
fancy?  Paul  keeps  teasing  me.  I  am  angry 
with  Paul.  What  does  he  want  ?  He 's  in  love 
with  me  .  .  .  but  his  love's  no  good  to  me. 
He's  in  love  with  Zoya  too.  I'm  unjust  to 
him  ;  he  told  me  yesterday  1  didn't  know  how 
to  be  unjust  by  halves  .  .  .  that's  true.  It's 
very  horrid. 

*  Ah,  I  feel  one  needs  unhappiness,  or 
poverty  or  sickness,  or  else  one  gets  conceited 
directly. 

*.  .  .  What  made  Andrei  Petrovitch  tell  me 
to-day  about  those  two  Bulgarians !  He  told 
me  it  as  it  were  with  some  intention.  What 
have  I  to  do  with  Mr.  Insarov?  I  feel  cross 
with  Andrei  Petrovitch. 

\  .  .  I  take  my  pen  and  don't  know  how  to 
135 


ON   THE   EVE 

begin.  How  ui  cxpectedly  he  began  to  talk  to 
me  in  the  garden  to-day  !  How  friendly  and 
confiding  he  was  !  How  quickly  it  happened  ! 
As  if  we  were  old,  old  friends  and  had  only  just 
recognised  each  other.  How  could  I  have  not 
understood  him  before  ?  How  near  he  is  to 
me  now  !  And — what 's  so  wonderful — I  feel 
ever  so  much  calmer  now.  It 's  ludi- 
crous ;  yesterday  I  was  angry  with  Andrei 
Petrovitch,  and  angry  with  him,  I  even  called 
him  Mr.  InsaroVy  and  to-day  .  .  .  Here  at 
last  is  a  true  man  ;  some  one  one  may  depend 
upon.  He  won't  tell  lies;  he's  the  first  man 
I  have  met  who  never  tells  lies ;  all  the  others 
tell  lies,  everything 's  lying.  Andrei  Petrovitch, 
dear  good  friend,  why  do  I  wrong  you  ?  No  ! 
Andrei  Petrovitch  is  more  learned  than  he  is, 
even,  perhaps  more  intellectual.  But  I  don't 
know,  he  seems  so  small  beside  him.  When  he 
speaks  of  his  country  he  seems  taller,  and  his  face 
grows  handsome,  and  his  voice  is  like  steel,  and 
...  no  ...  it  seems  as  though  there  were  no 
one  in  the  world  before  whom  he  would  flinch. 
And  he  doesn't  only  talk.  ...  he  has  acted 
and  he  will  act.  I  shall  ask  him.  .  .  .  How 
suddenly  he  turned  to  me  and  smiled  !  ...  It's 
only  brothers  that  smile  like  that !  Ah,  how 
glad  I  am !  When  he  came  the  first  time,  I 
never  dreamt  that  we  should  so  soon  get  to 
136 


ON   THE   EVE 

know  each  other.  And  now  I  a'^  even  pleased 
that  I  remained  indifferent  to  him  at  first. 
Indifferent?  Am  I  not  indifferent  then 
now  ?  .  .  .  It 's  long  since  I  have  felt  such  ^ 
inward  peace.  I  feel  so  quiet,  so  quiet. 
And  there's  nothing  to  write.?  I  see  him 
often  and  that's  all.  What  more  is  there  to 
write  ? 

*.  .  .  Paul  shuts  himself  up,  Andrei  Petrovitch 
has  taken  to  coming  less  often.  .  .  .  poor 
fellow  !  I  fancy  he  .  .  .  But  that  can  never  be, 
though.  I  like  talking  to  Andrei  Petrovitch  ; 
never  a  word  of  self,  always  of  something  sen- 
sible, useful.  Very  different  from  Shubin. 
Shubin  's  as  fine  as  a  butterfly,  and  admires  his 
own  finery ;  which  butterflies  don't  do.  But 
both  Shubin  and  Andrei  Petrovitch  ...  I 
know  what  I  mean. 

'.  .  .  He  enjoys  coming  to  us,  I  see  that.    But 
why  ?  what  does  he  find  in  me  ?     It 's  true  our    \. 
tastes  are  alike ;    he  and    I,  both  of  us  don^   ' 
care  for  poetry ;  neither  of  us  knows  anything  | 
of  art.     But  how  much  better  he  is  than  I !  \ 
He  is  calm,  I  am  in  perpetual  excitement;   hei'i^ 
has  chosen  his  path,  his  aim — while  I — where 
am  I  going  ?  where  is  my  home  ?     He  is  calm, 
but  all  his  thoughts  are  far  away.     The  time 
will  come,  and  he  will  leave  us  for  ever,  will  go 
home,  there  over  the  sea.     Well?     God  grant 
137 


ON   THE   EVE 

he   may!     Any  way  I   shall   be  glad  that   ! 
knew  him,  while  he  was  here. 

*  Why  isn't  he  a  Russian  ?  No,  he  could  not 
be  Russian. 

*  Mamma  too  likes  him  ;  she  says :  an  un- 
assuming young  man.  Dear  mamma!  She 
does  not  understand  him.  Paul  says  nothing ; 
he  guessed  I  didn't  like  his  hints,  but  he's  jeal- 
ous of  him.  Spiteful  boy!  And  what  right 
has  he .?  Did  I  ever  ...  All  that 's  nonsense ! 
What  makes  all  that  come  into  my  head  ? 

*.  .  .  Isn't  it  strange  though,  that  up  till  now, 
up  to  twenty,  I  have  never  loved  any  one  !  I 
believe  that  the  reason  why  D.'s  (I  shall  call  him 
D. — I  like  that  name  Dmitri)  soul  is  so  clear,  is 
that  he  is  entirely  given  up  to  his  work,  his 
ideal.  What  has  he  to  trouble  about  ?  When 
"5ny  one  has  utterly  .  .  .  utterly  .  .  .  given 
himself  up,  he  has  little  sorrow,  he  is  not  respon- 
isible  for  anything.  It 's  not  /  want,  but  tl  wants. 
iSy  the  way,  he  and  I  both  love  the  same  flowers. 
I  picked  a  rose  this  morning,  one  leaf  fell, 
he  picked  it  up.  .  .  .  I  gave  him  the  whole  rose. 

*.  .  .  D.  often  comes  to  us.  Yesterday  he 
spent  the  whole  evening.  He  wants  to  teach  me 
Bulgarian.  I  feel  happy  with  him,  quite  at 
home,  more  than  at  home. 

'.  .  .  The  days  fly  past.  ...  I  am  happy, 
and  somehow  discontent  and  I  am  thankful  to 
138 


ON   THE  EVE 

God,  and  tears  are  not  far  off.  Oh  these  hot 
bright  days  ! 

*.  .  .  I  am  still  light-hearted  as  before,  and 
only  at  times,  and  only  a  little,  sad.  I  am 
happy.     Am  I  happy  .? 

*.  .  .  It  will  be  long  before  I  forget  the 
expedition  yesterday.  What  strange,  new, 
terrible  impressions  when  he  suddenly  took 
that  great  giant  and  flung  him  like  a  ball 
into  the  water.  I  was  not  frightened  ,  .  .  yet 
he  frightened  me.  And  afterwards — what  an 
angry  face,  almost  cruel !  How  he  said,  "  He 
will  swim  out ! "  It  gave  me  a  shock.  So 
I  did  not  understand  him.  And  afterwards 
when  they  all  laughed,  when  I  was  laughing, 
how  I  felt  for  him !  He  was  ashamed,  I 
felt  that  he  was  ashamed  before  me.  He  told 
me  so  afterwards  in  the  carriage  in  the  dark, 
when  I  tried  to  get  a  good  view  of  him  and 
was  afraid  of  him.  Yes,  he  is  not  to  be  trifled 
with,  and  he  is  a  splendid  champion.  But 
why  that  wicked  look,  those  trembling  lips, 
that  angry  fire  in  his  eyes }  Or  is  it,  perhaps, 
inevitable.?  Isn't  it  possible  to  be  a  man,  a 
hero,  and  to  remain  soft  and  gentle  ?  "  Life 's 
a  coarse  business,"  he  said  to  me  once  lately. 
I  repeated  that  saying  to  Andrei  Petrovitch ; 
he  did  not  agree  with  D.  Which  of  them  is 
right  ?  But  the  beginning  of  that  day  !  How 
139 


ON    THE   EVE 

happy  I  was,  walking  beside  him,  even  without 
speaking.  .  .  .  But  I  am  glad  of  what  hap- 
pened.    I  see  that  it  was  quite  as  it  should  be. 

*.  .  .  Restlessness  again  ...  I  am  not  quite 
well.  .  .  .  All  these  days  I  have  written  no- 
thing in  this  book,  because  I  have  had  no  wish  to 
write.  I  felt,  whatever  I  write,  it  won't  be  what 
is  in  my  heart.  .  .  .  And  what  is  in  my  heart  ? 
I  have  had  a  long  talk  with  him,  which  re- 
vealed a  great  deal.  He  told  me  his  plan 
(by  the  way,  I  know  now  how  he  got  the  wound 
in  his  neck.  .  .  .  Good  God  !  when  I  think  he 
was  actually  condemned  to  death,  that  he  was 
only  just  saved,  that  he  was  wounded.  .  .  .  ) 
He  prophesies  war  and  will  be  glad  of  it.  And 
for  all  that,  I  never  saw  D.  so  depressed.  What 
can  he  ...  he  !  ...  be  depressed  by .?  Papa 
arrived  home  from  town  and  came  upon 
us  two.  He  looked  rather  queerly  at  us. 
Andrei  Petrovitch  came ;  I  noticed  he  had 
grown  very  thin  and  pale.  He  reproved  me, 
saying  I  behave  too  coldly  and  inconsiderately 
to  Shubin.  I  had  utterly  forgotten  Paul's  exis- 
tence. I  will  see  him,  and  try  to  smooth  over  my 
offence.  He  is  nothing  to  me  now  .  .  .  nor  any 
one  else  in  the  world.  Andrei  Petrovitch  talked 
to  me  in  a  sort  of  commiserating  way.  What 
does  it  all  mean  ?  Why  is  everything  around 
me  and  within  me  so  dark  ?  I  feel  as  if  about 
140 


ON   ThlE   EVE 

me  and  within  me,  something  mysterious  were 
happening,  for  which  I  want  to  find  the  right 
word.  ...  I  did  not  sleep  all  night  ;  my  head 
aches.  What 's  the  good  of  writing  ?  He  went 
away  so  quickly  to-day  and  I  wanted  to  talk 
to  him.  ...  He  almost  seems  to  avoid  me. 
Yes,  he  avoids  me. 

*.  .  .  The  word  is  found,  light  has  dawned 
on  me !  My  God,  have  pity  on  me.  »  .  .  i 
love  himl' 


t^ 


141 


XVII 

On  the  very  day  on  which  Elena  had  written 
this  last  fatal  line  in  her  diary,  Insarov  was 
sitting  in  Bersenyev's  room,  and  Bersenyev  was 
standing  before  him  with  a  look  of  perplexity 
on  his  face.  Insarov  had  just  announced  his 
intention  of  returning  to  Moscow  the  next  day. 

*  Upon  my  word  ! '  cried  Bersenyev.  '  Why, 
the  finest  part  of  the  summer  is  just  beginning. 
What  will  you  do  in  Moscow  >  What  a  sudden 
decision !  Or  have  you  had  news  of  some 
sort  ? ' 

*I  have  had  no  news,'  replied  Insarov;  'but 
on  thinking  things  over,  I  find  I  cannot  stop 
here.' 

*  How  can  that  be  ?  * 

*  Andrei  Petrovitch,'  said  Insarov,  *  be  so 
kind  .  .  .  don't  insist,  please,  I  am  very  sorry 
myself  to  be  leaving  you,  but  it  can't  be 
helped.' 

Bersenyev  looked  at  him  intently. 

*  I   know,'  he  said  at   last,  '  there 's  no  per- 

142 


ON  THE  EVE 

suading  you.     And  so,  it's   a   settled   matter, 
is  it  ? 

*  Absolutely  settled,*  replied  Insarov,  getting 
up  and  going  away. 

Bersenyev  walked  about  the  room,  then  took 
his  hat  and  set  off  for  the  Stahovs. 

*  You  have  something  to  tell  me,'  Elena  said 
to  him,  directly  they  were  left  alone. 

*  Yes,  how  did  you  guess  ? ' 

*  Never  mind  ;  tell  me  what  it  is.' 
Bersenyev  told  her  of  Insarov's  intention. 
Elena  turned  white. 

*  What  does  it  mean  ? '  she  articulated  with 
effort. 

'You  know,'  observed  Bersenyev,  'Dmitri 
Nikanorovitch  does  not  care  to  give  reasons  for 
his  actions.  But  I  think  ...  let  us  sit  down, 
Elena  Nikolaevna,  you  don't  seem  very  well. 
...  I  fancy  I  can  guess  what  is  the  real  cause 
of  this  sudden  departure.' 

'What — what  cause?'  repeated  Elena,  and 
unconsciously  she  gripped  tightly  Bersenyev's 
hand  in  her  chill  fingers. 

'  You  see,'  began  Bersenyev,  with  a  pathetic 
smile, '  how  can  I  explain  to  you  ?  I  must  go 
back  to  last  spring,  to  the  time  when  I  began 
to  be  more  intimate  with  Insarov.  I  used  to 
meet  him  then  at  the  house  of  a  relative,  who 
had  a  daughter,  a  very  pretty  girl.  I  thought 
143 


ON   THE   EVE 

that  Insarov  cared  for  her,  and  I  told  him  sa 
He  laughed,  and  answered  that  I  was  mistaken, 
that  he  was  quite  heart-whole,  but  if  anything 
of  that  sort  did  happen  to  him,  he  should  run 
away  directly,  as  he  did  not  want,  in  his  own 
words,  for  the  sake  of  personal  feeling,  to  be 
false  to  his  cause  and  his  duty.  "  I  am  a  Bul- 
garian," he  said,  "  and  I  have  no  need  of  a 
Russian  love " 

*  Well — so — now  you '  whispered  Elena. 

She  involuntarily  turned  away  her  head,  like  a 
man  expecting  a  blow,  but  she  still  held  the 
hand  she  had  clutched. 

*  I  think,'  he  said,  and  his  own  voice  sank, 
*I  think  that  what  I  fancied  then  has  really 
happened  now.' 

*  That  is  —  you  think  —  don't  torture  me ! ' 
broke  suddenly  from  Elena. 

'  I  think,'  Bersenyev  continued  hurriedly, 
*that  Insarov  is  in  love  now  with  a  Russian 
girl,  and  he  is  resolved  to  go,  according  to  his 
word.' 

Elena  clasped  his  hand  still  tighter,  and  her 
head  drooped  still  lower,  as  if  she  would  hide 
from  other  eyes  the  flush  of  shame  which  sud- 
denly blazed  over  her  face  and  neck. 

'Andrei  Petrovitch,  you  are  kind  as  an 
angel,'  she  said,  'but  will  he  come  to  say  good- 
bye?' 

144 


ON   THE   EVE 

*  Yes,  I  imagine  so  ;  he  will  be  sure  to  come 
He  wouldn't  like  to  go  away ' 

'  Tell  him,  tell  him ' 

But  here  the  poor  girl  broke  down  ;  tears 
rushed  streaming  from  her  eyes,  and  she  ran 
out  of  the  room. 

*  So  that 's  how  she  loves  him,'  thought  Ber- 
senyev,  as  he  walked  slowly  home.  *  I  didn't 
expect  that ;  I  didn't  think  she  felt  so  strongly. 
I  am  kind,  she  says  : '  he  pursued  his  reflections  : 
...  *  Who  can  tell  what  feelings,  what  impulse 
drove  me  to  tell  Elena  all  that  ?  It  was  not 
kindness ;  no,  not  kindness.  It  was  all  the 
accursed  desire  to  make  sure  whether  the 
dagger  is  really  in  the  wound.  I  ought  to  be 
content.  They  love  each  other,  and  I  have 
been  of  use  to  them.  . .  .  The  future  go-between 
between  science  and  the  Russian  public 
Shubin  calls  me  ;  it  seems  as  though  it  had 
been  decreed  at  my  birth  that  I  should  be  a 
go-between.  But  if  I  'm  mistaken  ?  No,  I  'm 
not  mistaken ' 

It  was  bitter  for  Andrei  Petrovitch,  and  he 
could  not  turn  his  mind  to  Raumer. 

The  next  day  at  two  o'clock  Insarov  arrived 
at  the  Stahovs'.  As  though  by  express  design, 
there  was  a  visitor  in  Anna  Vassilyevna's 
drawing-room  at  the  time,  the  wife  of  a  neigh- 
bouring chief-priest,  an  excellent  and  worthy 
145  ^ 


ON   THE   EVE 

woman,  though  she  had  had  a  little  unpleasant- 
ness with  the  police,  because  she  thought  fit,  in 
the  hottest  part  of  the  day,  to  bathe  in  a  lake 
near  the  road,  along  which  a  certain  dignified 
general's  family  used  often  to  be  passing.  The 
presence  of  an  outside  person  was  at  first  even 
a  relief  to  Elena,  from  whose  face  every  trace  of 
colour  vanished,  directly  she  heard  Insarov's 
step ;  but  her  heart  sank  at  the  thought  that  he 
might  go  without  a  word  with  her  alone.  He, 
too,  seemed  confused,  and  avoided  meeting  her 
eyes.  *  Surely  he  will,  not  go  directly,'  thought 
Elena.  Insarov  was,  in  fact,  turning  to  take 
leave  of  Anna  Vassilyevna ;  Elena  hastily 
rose  and  called  him  aside  to  the  window. 
The  priest's  wife  was  surprised,  and  tried  to 
turn  round ;  but  she  was  so  tightly  laced  that 
her  stays  creaked  at  every  movement,  and  she 
stayed  where  she  was. 

'  Listen,'  said  Elena  hurriedly  ;  *  I  know  what 
you  have  come  for ;  Andrei  Petrovitch  told 
me  of  your  intention,  but  I  beg,  I  entreat  you, 
do  not  say  good-bye  to  us  to-day,  but  come 
here  to-morrow  rather  earlier,  at  eleven.  I 
must  have  a  few  words  with  you.' 

Insarov  bent  his  head  without  speaking. 

'  I  will  not  keep  you.  .  .  .  You  promise 
me.?' 

Again  Insarov  bowed,  but  said  nothing. 
146 


ON   THE   EVE 

'Lenotchka,  come  here/  said  Anna  Vassil- 
yevna,  *  look,  what  a  charming  reticule.' 

'  1  worked  it  myself,'  observed  the  priest's  wife. 

Elena  came  away  from  the  window. 

Insarov  did  not  stay  more  than  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  at  the  Stahovs'.  Elena  watched  him 
secretly.  He  was  restless  and  ill  at  ease.  As 
before,  he  did  not  know  where  to  look,  and 
he  went  away  strangely  and  suddenly ;  he 
seemed  to  vanish. 

Slowly  passed  that  day  for  Elena  ;  still  more 
slowly  dragged  on  the  long,  long  night.  Elena 
sat  on  her  bed,  her  arms  clasping  her  knees,  and 
her  head  laid  on  them  ;  then  she  walked  to  the 
window,  pressed  her  burning  forehead  against 
the  cold  glass,  and  thought  and  thought,  going 
over  and  over  the  same  thoughts  till  she 
was  exhausted.  Her  heart  seemed  turned 
to  stone,  she  did  not  feel  it,  but  the  veins  in 
her  head  throbbed  painfully,  her  hair  stifled 
her,  and  her  lips  were  dry.  *  He  will  come  .  .  . 
he  did  not  say  good-bye  to  mamma  ...  he 
will  not  deceive  me.  .  .  Can  Andrei  Petrovitch 
have  been  right  ?  It  cannot  be.  .  .  He  didn't 
promise  to  come  in  words.  .-.  Can  I  have  parted 

from    him    for    ever > '      Those   were   the 

thoughts  that  never  left  her,  literally  never  left 

her  ;  they  did  not  come  and  come  again  ;  they 

were  for  ever  turning  like  a  mist  moving  about 

147 


ON   THE   EVE 

in  her  brain.  '  He  loves  me  ! '  suddenly  flashed 
through  her,  setting  her  whole  nature  on  fire, 
and  she  gazed  fixedly  into  the  darkness ;  a 
secret  smile  parted  her  lips,  seen  by  none, 
but  she  quickly  shook  her  head,  and  clasped 
her  hands  behind  her  neck,  and  again  her 
former  thought  hung  like  a  mist  about  her. 
Before  morning  she  undressed  and  went  to  bed, 
but  she  could  not  sleep.  The  first  fiery  ray  of 
sunlight  fell  upon  her  room.  .  .  *  Oh,  if  he  loves 
me ! '  she  cried  suddenly,  and  unabashed  by  the 
light  shining  on  her,  she  opened  wide  her  arms 
.  .  .  She  got  up,  dressed,  and  went  down.  No 
one  in  the  house  was  awake  yet.  She  went 
into  the  garden,  but  in  the  garden  it  was  peace- 
ful, green,  and  fresh  ;  the  birds  chirped  so  con- 
fidingly, and  the  flowers  peeped  out  so  gaily 
that  she  could  not  bear  it.  '  Oh  ! '  she  thought, 
'  if  it  is  true,  no  blade  of  grass  is  happy  as  I. 
But  is  it  true  ? '  She  went  back  to  her  room 
and,  to  kill  time,  she  began  changing  her  dress. 
But  everything  slipped  out  of  her  hands,  and 
she  was  still  sitting  half-dressed  before  her 
looking  -  glass  when  she  was  summoned  to 
morning  tea.  She  went  down ;  her  mother 
noticed  her  pallor,  but  only  said :  '  How 
interesting  you  are  to-day,'  and  taking  her  in 
in  a  glance,  she  added  :  '  How  well  that  dress 
suits  you ;  you  should  always  put  it  on  when 
148 


ON   THE   EVE 

you  want  to  make  an  impression  on  any  one/ 
Elena  made  no  reply,  and  sat  down  in  a 
corner.  Meanwhile  it  struck  nine  o'clock ; 
there  were  only  two  hours  now  till  eleven. 
Elena  tried  to  read,  then  to  sew,  then  to  read 
again,  then  she  vowed  to  herself  to  walk  a  hun- 
dred times  up  and  down  one  alley,  and  paced 
it  a  hundred  times  ;  then  for  a  long-  time  she 
watched  Anna  Vassilyevna  laying  out  the  cards 
for  patience  .  .  .  and  looked  at  the  clock  ; 
it  was  not  yet  ten.  Shubin  came  into  the 
drawing-room.  She  tried  to  talk  to  him,  and 
begged  his  pardon,  what  for  she  did  not  know 
herself,  .  .  .  Every  word  she  uttered  did  not 
cost  her  effort  exactly,  but  roused  a  kind  of 
amazement  in  herself.  Shubin  bent  over  her. 
She  expected  ridicule,  raised  her  eyes,  and  saw 
before  her  a  sorrowful  and  sympathetic  face. 
.  .  .  She  smiled  at  this  face.  Shubin,  too, 
smiled  at  her  without  speaking,  and  gently  left 
her.  She  tried  to  keep  him,  but  could  not  at 
once  remember  what  to  call  him.  At  last  it 
struck  eleven.  Then  she  began  to  wait,  to 
wait,  and  to  listen.  She  could  do  nothing  now  ; 
she  ceased  even  to  think.  Her  heart  was 
stirred  into  life  again,  and  began  beating  louder 
and  louder,  and  strange,  to  say,  the  time 
seemed  flying  by.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  passed, 
then  half  an  hour ;  a  few  minutes  more,  as 
149 


ON  THE  EVE 

Elena  thought,  had  passed,  when  suddenly  she 
started ;  the  clock  had  struck  not  twelve,  but 
one.  *  He  is  not  coming;  he  is  going  away 
without  saying  good  -  bye.'  .  .  .  The  blood 
rushed  to  her  head  with  this  thought.  She  felt 
that  she  was  gasping  for  breath,  that  she  was 
on  the  point  of  sobbing.  .  .  .  She  ran  to  her 
own  room,  and  fell  with  her  face  in  her  clasped 
hands  on  to  the  bed. 

For  half  an  hour  she  lay  motionless ;  the 
tears  flowed  through  her  fingers  on  to  the 
pillow.  Suddenly  she  raised  herself  and  sat  up, 
something  strange  was  passing  in  her,  her  face 
changed,  her  wet  eyes  grew  dry  and  shining,  her 
brows  were  bent  and  her  lips  compressed.  An- 
other half-hour  passed.  Elena,  for  the  last 
time,  strained  her  ears  to  listen :  was  not  that 
the  familiar  voice  floating  up  to  her  ?  She  got 
up,  put  on  her  hat  and  gloves,  threw  a  cape 
over  her  shoulders,  and,  slipping  unnoticed  out 
of  the  house,  she  went  with  swift  steps  along 
the  road  leading  to  Bersenyev's  lodging. 


ISO 


XVIII 

Elena  walked  with  her  head  bent  and  her 
eyes  fixed  straight  before  her.  She  feared 
nothing,  she  considered  nothing ;  she  wanted 
to  see  Insarov  once  more.  She  went  on,  not 
noticing  that  the  sun  had  long  ago  disappeared 
behind  heavy  black  clouds,  that  the  wind  was 
roaring  by  gusts  in  the  trees  and  blowing  her 
dress  about  her,  that  the  dust  had  suddenly 
risen  and  was  flying  in  a  cloud  along  the  road. 
.  .  .  Large  drops  of  rain  were  falling,  she  did 
not  even  notice  it ;  but  it  fell  faster  and 
heavier,  there  were  flashes  of  lightning  and 
peals  of  thunder.  Elena  stood  still  looking 
round.  .  .  .  Fortunately  for  her,  there  was  a 
little  old  broken-down  chapel  that  had  been 
built  over  a  disused  well  not  far  from  the 
place  where  she  was  overtaken  by  the  storm. 
She  ran  to  it  and  got  under  the  low  roof. 
The  rain  fell  in  torrents ;  the  sky  was  com- 
pletely overcast.  In  dumb  despair  Elena 
stared  at  the  thick  network  of  fast-falling 
151 


ON   THE   EVE 

drops.  Her  last  hope  of  getting  a  sight  of 
Insarov  was  vanishing.  A  little  old  beggar- 
woman  came  into  the  chapel,  shook  her- 
self, said  with  a  curtsy :  '  Out  of  the  rain, 
good  lady/  and  with  many  sighs  and  groans 
sat  down  on  a  ledge  near  the  well.  Elena 
put  her  hand  into  her  pocket ;  the  old  woman 
noticed  this  action  and  a  light  came  into 
her  face,  yellow  and  wrinkled  now,  though 
once  handsome.  *  Thank  you,  dear  gracious 
lady,'  she  was  beginning.  There  happened  to 
be  no  purse  in  Elena's  pocket,  but  the  old 
woman  was  still  holding  out  her  hand. 

'  I  have  no  money,  grannie,'  said  Elena,  *but 
here,  take  this,  it  will  be  of  use  for  something.' 

She  gave  her  her  handkerchief 

*0-oh,  my  pretty  lady,'  said  the  beggar, 
'what  do  you  give  your  handkerchief  to  me 
for?  For  a  wedding-present  to  my  grand- 
child when  she's  married?  God  reward  you 
for  your  goodness  ! ' 

A  peal  of  thunder  was  heard. 

'Lord  Jesus  Christ,'  muttered  the  beggar- 
woman,  and  she  crossed  herself  three  times. 
'Why,  haven't  I  seen  you  before,'  she  added 
after  a  brief  pause.  '  Didn't  you  give  me  alms 
in  Christ's  name?' 

Elena   looked   more  attentively  at  the  old 
woman  and  recognised  her. 
152 


ON   TH      EVE 

*Yes,  grannie,'  she  answered,  *  wasn't  it  you 
asked  me  why  I  was  so  sorrowful  ? ' 

*Yes,  darling,  yes.  I  fancied  I  knew  you. 
And  I  think  you've  a  heart-ache  still.  You 
seem  in  trouble  now.  Here's  your  handker- 
chief, too,  wet  from  tears  to  be  sure.  Oh, 
you  young  people,  you  all  have  the  same 
sorrow,  a  terrible  woe  it  is  I ' 

'  What  sorrow,  grannie  }  * 

'  Ah,  my  good  young  lady,  you  can't  deceive  -'- 
an  old  woman  like  me.  I  know  what  your 
heart  is  heavy  over;  your  sorrow's  not  an 
uncommon  one.  Sure,  I  have  been  young  too, 
darling.  I  have  been  through  that  trouble 
too.  Yes.  And  I  '11  tell  you  something,  for 
your  goodness  to  me ;  you  've  won  a  good 
man,  not  a  light  of  love,  you  cling  to  him 
alone ;  cling  to  him  stronger  than  death.  If 
it  comes  off,  it  comes  off, — if  not,  it 's  in  God's 
hands.  Yes.  Why  are  you  wondering  at  me  ? 
I  'm  a  fortune-teller.  There,  I  '11  carry  away 
your  sorrow  with  your  handkerchief  I  '11  carry 
it  away,  and  it 's  over.  See  the  rain 's  less ; 
you  wait  a  little  longer.  It's  not  the  first 
time  I  've  been  wet.  Remember,  darling  ;  you 
had  a  sorrow,  the  sorrow  has  flown,  and  there 's 
no  memory  of  it.   Good  Lord ,  have  mercy  on  us ! ' 

The  beggar-woman  got  up  from   the   edge 
of  the  well,  went  out  of  the  chapel,  and  stole 
153 


ON   THE  EVE 

off  on  her  way.  Elena  stared  after  her  in 
bewilderment.  *What  does  this  mean?'  she 
murmured  involuntarily. 

The  rain  grew  less  and  less,  the  sun  peeped 
out  for  an  instant.  Elena  was  just  preparing 
to  leave  her  shelter.  .  .  .  Suddenly,  ten  paces 
from  the  chapel,  she  saw  Insarov.  Wrapt  in 
a  cloak  he  was  walking  along  the  very  road 
by  which  Elena  had  come ;  he  seemed  to  be 
hurrying  home. 

She  clasped  the  old  rail  of  the  steps  for  sup- 
port, and  tried  to  call  to  him,  but  her  voice 
failed  her.  .  .  Insarov  had  already  passed  by 
without  raising  his  head. 

*  Dmitri  Nikanorovitch ! '  she  said  at  last. 
Insarov  stopped  abruptly,  looked  round.  .  .  , 

For  the  first  minute  he  did  not  know  Elena, 
but  he  went  up  to  her  at  once.  '  You !  you 
here ! '  he  cried. 

She  walked  back  in  silence  into  the  chapel. 
Insarov  followed  Elena.  *You  here?'  he  re- 
peated. 

She  was  still  silent,  and  only  gazed  upon 
him  with  a  strange,  slow,  tender  look.  He 
dropped  his  eyes. 

*  You  have  come  from  our  house  ?  *  she 
asked. 

*  No  .  .  .  not  from  your  house.' 

*No?'    repeated    Elena,   and    she   tried   to 
154 


ON  THE  EVE 

smile.  *  Is  that  how  you  keep  your  promises  ? 
I  have  been  expecting  you  ever  since  the 
morning.' 

*  I  made  no  promise  yesterday,  if  you  re- 
member, Elena  Nikolaevna.' 

Again  Elena  faintly  smiled,  and  she  passed 
her  hand  over  her  face.  Both  face  and  hands 
were  very  white. 

'  You  meant,  then,  to  go  away  without  saying 
good-bye  to  us  ? ' 

'Yes,'  replied  Insarov  in  a  surly,  thick 
voice. 

*What?  After  our  friendship,  after  the 
talks,  after  everything.  .  .  .  Then  if  I  had  not 
met  you  here  by  chance '  (Elena's  voice  began 
to  break,  and  she  paused  an  instant)  ...  *  you 
would  have  gone  away  like  that,  without  even 
shaking  hands  for  the  last  time,  and  you  would 
not  have  cared  ?  ' 

Insarov  turned  away.  *  Elena  Nikolaevna, 
don't  talk  like  that,  please.  I  'm  not  over 
happy  as  it  is.  Believe  me,  my  decision  has 
cost  me  great  effort.     If  you  knew ' 

*  I  don't  want  to  know,'  Elena  interposed 
with  dismay,  '  why  you  are  going.  ...  It  seems 
it 's.  necessary.  It  seems  we  must  part.  You 
would  not  wound  your  friends  without  good 
reason.  But,  can  friends  part  like  this  ?  And 
we  are  friends,  aren't  we  } ' 

155 


ON   THE  EVE 

'  No/  said  Insarov. 

*  What  ? '  murmured  Elena.  Her  cheeks  were 
overspread  with  a  faint  flush. 

'  That 's  just  why  I  am  going  away — because 
we  are  not  friends.  Don't  force  me  into  saying 
what  I  don't  want  to  say,  and  what  I  won't  say.' 

'You  used  to  be  so  open  with  me,'  said 
Elena  rather  reproachfully.  *  Do  you  re- 
member > ' 

*  I  used  to  be  able  to  be  open,  then  I  had 
nothing  to  conceal ;  but  now * 

'  But  now  ? '  queried  Elena. 

*  But  now  .  .  .  now  I  must  go  away.  Good- 
bye.' 

If,  at  that  instant,  Insarov  had  lifted  his  eyes 
to  Elena,  he  would  have  seen  that  her  face  grew 
brighter  and  brighter  as  he  frowned  and  looked 
gloomy  ;  but  he  kept  his  eyes  obstinately  fixed 
on  the  ground. 

'  Well,  good-bye,  Dmitri  Nikanorovitch/  she 
began.  *  But  at  least,  since  we  have  met,  give 
me  your  hand  now.' 

Insarov  was  stretching  out  his  hand.  '  No, 
I  can't  even  do  that,'  he  said,  and  turned  away 
again. 

'You  can't?' 

'  No,  I  can't.  Good-bye.*  And  he  moved 
away  to  the  entrance  of  the  chapel. 

'Wait  a  little  longer,'  said  Elena.  'You 
156 


ON   THE   EVE 

seem  afraid  of  me.  But  I  am  braver  than  you,' 
she  added,  a  faint  tremor  passing  suddenly- 
over  her  whole  body.  '  I  can  tell  you  .  .  .  shall 
I  ?  .  .  .  how  it  was  you  found  me  here  ?  Do 
you  know  where  I  was  going  ? ' 

Insarov  looked  in  bewilderment  at  Elena. 

*  I  was  going  to  you.' 
'  To  me  ? ' 

Elena  hid  her  face.  '  You  mean  to  force  me 
to  say  that  I  love  you,'  she  whispered.  '  There, 
I  have  said  it.' 

*  Elena ! '  cried  Insarov. 

She  took  his  hands,  looked  at  him,  and  fell 
on  his  breast 

He  held  her  close  to  him,  and  said  nothing. 
There  was  no  need  for  him  to  tell  her  he  loved 
her.  From  that  cry  alone,  from  the  instant 
transformation  of  the  whole  man,  from  the 
heaving  of  the  breast  to  which  she  clung  so 
confidingly,  from  the  touch  of  his  finger  tips  in 
her  hair,  Elena  could  feel  that  she  was  loved. 
He  did  not  speak,  and  she  needed  no  words. 
*  He  is  here,  he  loves  me  .  .  .  what  need  of 
more  ? '  The  peace  of  perfect  bliss,  the  peace 
of  the  harbour  reached  after  storm,  of  the  end 
attained,  that  heavenly  peace  which  gives 
significance  and  beauty  even  to  death,  filled 
her  with  its  divine  flood.  She  desired  nothing, 
for  she  had  gained  all.  *0  my  brother, 
157 


ON   THE   EVE 

my  friend,  my  dear  one ! '  her  lips  were  whis- 
pering, while  she  did  not  know  whose  was  this 
heart,  his  or  her  own,  which  beat  so  blissfully, 
and  melted  against  her  bosom. 

He  stood  motionless,  folding  in  his  strong 
embrace  the  young  life  surrendered  to  him  ; 
he  felt  against  his  heart  this  new,  infinitely 
precious  burden  ;  a  passion  of  tenderness,  of 
gratitude  unutterable,  was  crumbling  his  hard 
will  to  dust,  and  tears  unknown  till  now  stood 
in  his  eyes. 

She  did  not  weep  ;  she  could  only  repeat, 
*  O  my  friend,  my  brother  !  * 

'  So  you  will  follow  me  everywhere  ?  *  he  said 
to  her,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  still  enfold- 
ing her  and  keeping  her  close  to  him  in  his 
arms. 

*  Everywhere,  to  the  ends  of  the  earth. 
Where  you  are,  I  will  be.' 

'And  you  are  not  deceiving  yourself,  you 
know  your  parents  will  never  consent  to  our 
marriage  ? ' 

*  I  don't  deceive  myself;  I  know  that.' 
*You  know  that  I  'm  poor — almost  a  beggar.* 

*  1  know.' 

'  That  I  'm  not  a  Russian,  that  it  won't  be  my 
fate  to  live  in  Russia,  that  you  will  have  to 
break  all  your  ties  with  your  country,  with 
your  people.' 

158 


ON   THE  EVE 

*I  know,  I  know.' 

*  Do  you  know,  too,  that  I  have  given  myself 
up  to  a  difficult,  thankless  cause,  that  I  .  .  . 
that  we  shall  have  to  expose  ourselves  not  to 
dangers  only,  but  to  privation,  humiliation, 
perhaps ' 

*  I  know,  I  know  all — I  love  you ' 

*  That  you  will  have  to  give  up  all  you  are 
accustomed  to,  that  out  there  alone  among 
strangers,  you  will  be  forced  perhaps  to 
work ' 

She  laid  her  hand  on.  his  lips.  *  I  love  you, 
my  dear  one.' 

He  began  hotly  kissing  her  slender,  rosy 
hand.  Elena  did  not  draw  it  away  from  his 
lips,  and  with  a  kind  of  childish  delight,  with 
smiling  curiosity,  watched  how  he  covered  with 
kisses,  first  the  palm,  then  the  fingers.  .  .  . 

All  at  once  she  blushed  and  hid  her  face 
upon  his  breast. 

He  lifted  her  head  tenderly  and  looked 
steadily  into  her  eyes.  *  Welcome,  then,  my 
wife,  before  God  and  men ! ' 


«59 


XIX 

An  hour  later,  Elena,  with  her  hat  in  one 
hand,  her  cape  in  the  other,  walked  slowly  into 
the  drawing-room  of  the  villa.  Her  hair  was 
in  slight  disorder ;  on  each  cheek  was  to  be 
seen  a  small  bright  spot  of  colour,  the 
smile  would  not  leave  her  lips,  her  eyes 
were  nearly  shutting  and  half  hidden  under 
the  lids  ;  they,  too,  were  smiling.  She 
could  scarcely  move  for  weariness,  and  this 
weariness  was  pleasant  to  her ;  everything, 
indeed,  was  pleasant  to  her.  Everything 
seemed  sweet  and  friendly  to  her.  Uvar 
Ivanovitch  was  sitting  at  the  window ;  she 
went  up  to  him,  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
stretched  a  little,  and  involuntarily,  as  it  seemed, 
she  laughed. 

*  What  is  it  ? '  he  inquired,  astonished. 

She   did  not  know  what   to  say.     She  felt 
inclined  to  kiss  Uvar  Ivanovitch. 

*  How  he  splashed  ! '  she  explained  at  last. 
But  Uvar  Ivanovitch  did  not  stir  a  muscle. 

i6o 


ON   THE   EVE 

and  continued    to   look    with    amazement    at 
Elena.    She  dropped  her  hat  and  cape  on  to  him. 

*  Dear  Uvar  Ivanovitch,'  she  said,  *  I  am 
sleepy  and  tired,'  and  again  she  laughed  and 
sank  into  a  low  chair  near  him. 

*  H'm, '  grunted  Uvar  Ivanovitch,  flourishing 
his  fingers,  '  then  you  ought — yes ' 

Elena  was  looking  round  her  and  thinking, 
*  From  all  this  I  soon  must  part  .  .  .  and  strange 
—  I  have  no  dread,  no  doubt,  no  regret.  .  .  .  No, 
I  am  sorry  for  mamma.'  Then  the  little  chapel 
rose  again  before  her  mind,  again  her  voice 
was  echoing  in  it,  and  she  felt  his  arms  about 
her.  Joyously,  though  faintly,  her  heart 
fluttered  ;  weighed  down  by  the  languor  of 
happiness.  The  old  beggar-woman  recurred 
to  her  mind.  '  She  did  really  bear  away  my 
sorrow,'  she  thought.  *  Oh,  how  happy  I  am  I 
how  undeservedly  1  how  soon  ! '  If  she  had  let 
herself  go  in  the  least  she  would  have  melted 
into  sweet,  endless  tears.  She  could  only 
restrain  them  by  laughing.  Whatever  attitude 
she  fell  into  seemed  to  her  the  easiest,  most 
comfortable  possible  ;  she  felt  as  if  she  were 
being  rocked  to  sleep.  All  her  movements 
were  slow  and  soft ;  what  had  become  of  her 
awkwardness,  her  haste }  Zoya  came  in  ;  Elena 
decided  that  she  had  never  seen  a  more 
charming  little  face  ;  Anna  Vassilyevna  came 
i6i  L 


ON    THE   EVE 

in ;  Elena  felt  a  pang — but  with  what  tender- 
ness she  embraced  her  mother  and  kissed  her 
on  the  forehead  near  the  hair,  already  slightly 
grey  !  Then  she  went  away  to  her  own  room  ; 
how  everything  smiled  upon  her  there  !  With 
what  a  sense  of  sHamefaced  triumph  and  tran- 
quillity she  sat  down  on  her  bed — the  very 
bed  on  which,  only  three  hours  ago,  she  had 
spent  such  bitter  moments!  *  And  yet,  even 
then,  I  knew  he  loved  me,'  she  thought,  '  even 
before  .  .  .  Ah,  no !  it 's  a  sin.  You  are  my 
wife,'  she  whispered,  hiding  her  face  in  her 
hands  and  falling  on  her  knees. 

Towards  the  evening,  she  grew  more  thought- 
ful. Sadness  came  upon  her  at  the  thought  that 
she  would  not  soon  see  Insarov.  He  could 
not  without  awakening  suspicion  remain  at  Ber- 
senyev's,  and  so  this  was  what  he  and  Elena  had 
resolved  on.  Insarov  was  to  return  to  Moscow 
and  to  come  over  to  visit  them  twice  before 
the  autumn  ;  on  her  side  she  promised  to  write 
him  letters,  and,  if  it  were  possible,  to  arrange 
a  meeting  with  him  somewhere  near  Kuntsov. 
She  went  down  to  the  drawing-room  to  tea,  and 
found  there  all  the  household  and  Shubin,  who 
looked  at  her  sharply  directly  she  came  in  ;  she 
tried  to  talk  to  him  in  a  friendly  way  as  of  old, 
but  she  dreaded  his  penetration,  she  was  afraid 
of  herself.  She  felt  sure  that  there  was  good 
162 


ON  THE  EVE 

reason  for  his  having  left  her  alone  for  more 
than  a  fortnight.  Soon  Bersenyev  arrived, 
and  gave  Insarov's  respects  to  Anna  Vassil- 
yevna  with  an  apology  for  having  gone  back 
to  Moscow  without  calling  to  take  leave  of  her. 
Insarov's  name  was  for  the  first  time  dur- 
ing the  day  pronounced  before  Elena,  She 
felt  that  she  reddened  ;  she  realised  at  the 
same  time  that  she  ought  to  express  regret 
at  the  sudden  departure  of  such  a  pleasant 
acquaintance ;  but  she  could  not  force  herself  to 
hypocrisy,  and  continued  to  sit  without  stirring 
or  speaking,  while  Anna  Vassilyevna  sighed 
and  lamented.  Elena  tried  to  keep  near  Ber- 
senyev ;  she  was  not  afraid  of  him,  though  he 
even  knew  part  of  her  secret ;  she  was  safe 
under  his  wing  from  Shubin,  who  still  persisted 
in  staring  at  her — not  mockingly  but  atten- 
tively. Bersenyev,  too,  was  thrown  into  per- 
plexity during  the  evening  :  he  had  expected 
to  see  Elena  more  gloomy.  Happily  for  her, 
an  argument  sprang  up  about  art  between  him 
and  Shubin  ;  she  moved  apart  and  heard  their 
voices  as  it  were  through  a  dream.  By  de- 
grees, not  only  they,  but  the  whole  room,  every- 
thing surrounding  her,  seemed  like  a  dream — 
everything  :  the  samovar  on  the  table,  and  Uvar 
Ivanovitch's  short  waistcoat,  and  Zoya's  polished 
finger-nails,  and  the  portrait  in  oils  of  the 
163 


ON   THE    EVE 

Grand  Duke  Constantine  Pavlovitch  on  the 
wall ;  everything  retreated,  everything  was 
wrapped  in  mist,  everything  ceased  to  exist. 
j  Only  she  felt  sorry  for  them  all.  'What  are 
they  living  for  ? '  she  thought. 

'Are  you  sleepy,  Lenotchka?'  her  mother 
asked  her.     She  did  not  hear  the  question. 

*  A  half  untrue  insinuation,  do  you  say  ? ' 
These  words,  sharply  uttered  by  Shubin, 
suddenly  awakened  Elena's  attention.  'Why/ 
he  continued, '  the  whole  sting  lies  in  that  A 
true  insinuation  makes  one  wretched — that's 
unchristian — and  to  an  untrue  insinuation  a  man 
is  indifferent — that's  stupid,  but  at  a  half  true 
one  he  feels  vexed  and  impatient.  For  instance, 
if  I  say  that  Elena  Nikolaevna  is  in  love  with 
one  of  us,  what  sort  of  insinuation  would  that 
be,  eh.?' 

'  Ah,  Monsieur  Paul,'  said  Elena,  *  I  should 
like  to  show  myself  vexed,  but  really  I  can't.  I 
am  so  tired. 

*  Why  don't  you  go  to  bed  ? '  observed  Anna 
Vassilyevna,  who  was  always  drowsy  in  the 
evening  herself,  and  consequently  always  eager 
to  send  the  others  to  bed.  *  Say  good-night  to 
me,  and  go  in  God's  name ;  Andrei  Petrovitch 
will  excuse  you.' 

Elena  kissed  her  mother,  bowed  to  all  and 
went   away.     Shubin   accompanied  her  to  the 
164 


ON   THE  EVB 

door.  *  Elena  Nikolaevna/  he  whispered  to  her 
in  the  doorway,  'you  trample  on  Monsieur 
Paul,  you  mercilessly  walk  over  him,  but 
Monsieur  Paul  blesses  you  and  your  little  feet, 
and  the  slippers  on  your  little  feet,  and  the 
soles  of  your  little  slippers.* 

Elena  shrugged  her  shoulders,  reluctantly 
held  out  her  hand  to  him — not  the  one  Insa- 
rov  had  kissed — and  going  up  to  her  room,  at 
once  undressed,  got  into  bed,  and  fell  asleep. 
She  slept  a  deep,  unstirring  sleep,  as  even 
children  rarely  sleep — the  sleep  of  a  child 
convalescent  after  sickness,  when  its  mother 
sits  near  its  cradle  and  watches  it,  and  listens 
to  its  breathing. 


m 


XX 


'Come  to  my  room  for  a  minute,'  Shubin  said 
to  Bersenyev,  directly  the  latter  had  taken 
leave  of  Anna  Vassilyevna :  '  I  have  something 
to  show  you.' 

Bersenyev  followed  him  to  his  attic.  He 
was  surprised  to  see  a  number  of  studies, 
statuettes,  and  busts,  covered  with  damp  cloths, 
set  about  in  all  the  corners  of  the  room. 

*  Well  I  see  you  have  been  at  work  in  earnest,* 
he  observed  to  Shubin. 

*  One  must  do  something,'  he  answered.  '  If 
one  thing  doesn't  do,  one  must  try  another. 
However,  like  a  true  Corsican,  I  am  more  con- 
cerned with  revenge  than  with  pure  art.  Trevia, 
Bisanzia  ! ' 

*  I  don't  understand  you,'  said  Bersenyev. 
'Well,  wait  a  minute.     Deign  to  look  this 

way,  gracious  friend  and  benefactor,  my  ven- 
geance number  one.' 

Shubin  uncovered  one  figure,  and  Bersenyev 
saw  a  capital  bust  of  Insarov,  an  excellent  like- 
i66 


ON  THE  EVE 

ness.  The  features  of  the  face  had  been  cor- 
rectly caught  by  Shubin  to  the  minutest  detail, 
and  he  had  given  him  a  fine  expression,  honest, 
generous,  and  bold. 

Bersenyev  went  into  raptures  over  it. 

*  That 's  simply  exquisite  ! '  he  cried.  *  I 
congratulate  you.  You  must  send  it  to  the 
exhibition  I  Why  do  you  call  that  magnificent 
work  your  vengeance?'' 

*  Because,  sir,  I  intended  to  offer  this  magni- 
ficent work  as  you  call  it  to  Elena  Nikolaevna 
on  her  name  day.  Do  you  see  the  allegory? 
We  are  not  blind,  we  see  what  goes  on  about 
us,  but  we  are  gentlemen,  my  dear  sir,  and  we 
take  our  revenge  like  gentlemen.  .  .  .  But  here,' 
added  Shubin,  uncovering  another  figure,  '  as 
the  artist  according  to  modern  aesthetic  prin- 
ciples enjoys  the  enviable  privilege  of  em- 
bodying in  himself  every  sort  of  baseness  which 
he  can  turn  into  a  gem  of  creative  art,  we  in  the 
production  of  this  gem,  number  two,  have  taken 
vengeance  not  as  gentlemen,  but  simply  en 
canaille! 

He  deftly  drew  off  the  cloth,  and  displayed 
to  Bersenyev's  eyes  a  statuette  in  Dantan's 
style,  also  of  Insarov.  Anything  cleverer 
and  more  spiteful  could  not  be  imagined. 
The  young  Bulgarian  was  represented  as 
a  ram  standing  on  his  hind-legs,  butting 
167 


ON   THE   EVE 

forward  with  his  horns.  Dull  solemnity 
and  aggressiveness,  obstinacy,  clumsiness  and 
narrowness  were  simply  printed  on  the  visage 
of  the  'sire  of  the  woolly  flock/  and  yet  the 
likeness  to  Insarov  was  so  striking  that  Bersen- 
yev  could  not  help  laughing. 

*  Eh  ?  is  it  amusing  ? '  said  Shubin.  *  Do  you 
recognise  the  hero  ?  Do  you  advise  me  to  send 
it  too  to  the  exhibition  ?  That,  my  dear  fellow,  I 
intend  as  a  present  for  myself  on  my  own  name 
day.  .  .  .  Your  honour  will  permit  me  to  play 
the  fool' 

And  Shubin  gave  three  little  leaps,  kicking 
himself  behind  with  his  heels. 

Bersenyev  picked  up  the  cloth  off  the  floor — 
and  threw  it  over  the  statuette. 

'  Ah,  you,  magnanimous  ' — began  Shubin. 
*  Who  the  devil  was  it  in  history  was  so  particu- 
larly magnanimous?  Well,  never  mind  !  And 
now,'  he  continued,  with  melancholy  triumph,  un- 
covering a  third  rather  large  mass  of  clay,  '  you 
shall  behold  something  which  will  show  you  the 
humility  and  discernment  of  your  friend.  You 
will  realise  that  he,  like  a  true  artist  again, 
feels  the  need  and  the  use  of  self-castigation. 
Behold  1 ' 

The  cloth  was  lifted  and  Bersenyev  saw  two 
heads,   modelled    side   by   side   and    close    as 
though  growing  together.  ...  He  did  not  at 
i68 


ON   THE   EVE 

once  know  what  was  the  subject,  but  looking 
closer,  he  recognised  in  one  of  them  Annushka, 
in  the  other  Shubin  himself.  They  \\  ere,  how- 
ever, rather  caricatures  than  portraits.  Annu- 
shka was  represented  as  a  handsome  fat  girl 
with  a  lov\^  forehead,  eyes  lost  in  layers  of 
fat,  and  a  saucily  turned-up  nose.  Her  thick 
lips  had  an  insolent  curve ;  her  whole  face 
expressed  sensuality,  carelessness,  and  bold- 
ness, not  without  goodnature.  Himself  Shubin 
had  modelled  as  a  lean  emaciated  rake,  with 
sunken  cheeks,  his  thin  hair  hanging  in  weak 
wisps  about  his  face,  a  meaningless  expression 
in  his  dim  eyes,  and  his  nose  sharp  and  thin  as 
a  dead  man's. 

Bersenyev  turned  away  with  disgust.  *  A 
nice  pair,  aren't  they,  my  dear  fellow?'  said 
Shubin  ;  *  won't  you  graciously  compose  a  suit- 
able title }  For  the  first  two  I  have  already 
thought  of  titles.  On  the  bust  shall  be  in- 
scribed :  "  A  hero  resolving  to  liberate  his 
country."  On  the  statuette :  "  Look  out, 
sausage-eating  Germans  ! "  And  for  this  work 
what  do  you  think  of  "  The  future  of  the  artist 
Pavel  Yakovlitch  Shubin  ?  "     Will  that  do  ? ' 

'  Leave    off,'    replied    Bersenyev.      '  Was    it 

worth  while  to  waste  your  time  on  such  a ' 

He  could  not  at  once  fix  on  a  suitable  word. 

•Disgusting  thing,  you  mean?  No,  my  dear 
169 


ON  THE  EVE 

fellow,  excuse  me,  if  anything  ought  to  go  to 
the  exhibition,  it  *s  that  group.' 

*  It 's  simply  disgusting,'  repeated  Bersenyev. 
'  And  besides,  it 's  nonsense.  You  have  abso- 
lutely no  such  degrading  tendencies  to  which, 
unhappily,  our  artists  have  such  a  frequent 
bent.     You  have  simply  libelled  yourself.' 

'  Do  you  think  so  ? '   said   Shubin  gloomily, 

*  I  have  none  of  them,  and  if  they  come  upon 

me,  the   fault   is   all   one   person's.      Do   you 

know,'  he  added,  tragically  knitting  his  brows, 

that  I  have  been  trying  drinking?* 

*  Nonsense  ?  * 

*  Yes,  I  have,  by  God,'  rejoined  Shubin  ;  and 
suddenly  grinning  and  brightening, — *  but  I 
didn't  like  it,  my  dear  boy,  the  stuff  sticks  in  my 
throat,  and  my  head  afterwards  is  a  perfect 
drum.  The  great  Lushtchihin  himself— Har- 
lampy  Lushtchihin — the  greatest  drunkard  in 
Moscow,  and  a  Great  Russian  drunkard  too, 
declared  there  was  nothing  to  be  made  of  me. 
In  his  words,  the  bottle  does  not  speak  to 
me.' 

Bersenyev  was  just  going  to  knock  the  group 
over  but  Shubin  stopped  him. 

*  That  '11  do,  my  dear  boy,  don't  smash  it ;  it 
will  serve  as  a  lesson,  a  scare-crow.* 

Bersenyev  laughed. 

*  If  that  *s  what  it  is,  I  will  spare  your  scare- 

170 


ON  THE  EVE 

crow  then,'  he  said.  And  now,  'Long  live  eterna- 
true  art ! ' 

*  Long  live  true  art  I '  put  in  Shubin.  *  By  art 
the  good  is  better  and  the  bad  is  not  all  loss  ! ' 

The  friends  shook  hands  warmly  and  parted. 


171 


XXI 

Elena's  first  sensation  on  awakening  was  one 
of  happy  consternation.  *  Is  it  possible?  Is  it 
possible  ? '  she  asked  herself,  and  her  heart 
grew  faint  with  happiness.  Recollections  came 
rushing  on  her  .  .  .  she  was  overwhelmed  by 
them.  Then  again  she  was  enfolded  by  the 
blissful  peace  of  triumph.  But  in  the  course  of 
the  morning,  Elena  gradually  became  possessed 
by  a  spirit  of  unrest,  and  for  the  remainder  of 
the  day  she  felt  listless  and  weary.  It  was 
true  she  knew  now  what  she  wanted,  but  that 
made  it  no  easier  for  her.  That  never-to-be 
forgotten  meeting  had  cast  her  for  ever  out  of 
the  old  groove  ;  she  was  no  longer  at  the  same 
standpoint,  she  was  far  away,  and  yet  every- 
thing went  on  about  her  in  its  accustomed 
order,  everything  pursued  its  own  course  as 
though  nothing  were  changed ;  the  old  life 
moved  on  its  old  way,  reckoning  on  Elena's 
interest  and  co-operation  as  of  old.  She  tried 
to  begin  a  letter  to  Insarov,  but  that  too  was 
172^ 


ON   THE  EVE 

a  failure ;  the  words  came  on  to  paper 
either  lifeless  or  false.  Her  diary  she  had  put 
an  end  to  by  drawing  a  thick  stroke  under 
the  last  line.  That  was  the  past,  and  every 
thought,  all  her  soul,  was  turned  now  to  the 
future.  Her  heart  was  heavy.  To  sit  with  her 
mother  who  suspected  nothing,  to  listen  to  her, 
ansv/er  her  and  talk  to  her,  seemed  to  Elena 
something  wicked  ;  she  felt  the  presence  of  a 
kind  of  falseness  in  her,  she  suffered  though  she 
had  nothing  to  blush  for;  more  than  once  an 
almost  irresistible  desire  sprang  up  in  her  heart 
to  tell  everything  without  reserve,  whatever 
might  come  of  it  afterwards.  'Why,'  she 
thought,  'did  not  Dmitri  take  me  away  then, 
from  that  little  chapel,  wherever  he  wanted  to 
go?  Didn't  he  tell  me  I  was  his  wife  before 
God?  What  am  I  here  for?'  She  suddenly 
began  to  feel  shy  of  every  one,  even  of  Uvar 
Ivanovitch,  who  was  flourishing  his  fingers  in 
more  perplexity  than  ever.  Now  everything 
about  her  seemed  neither  sweet  nor  friendly, 
nor  even  a  dream,  but,  like  a  nightmare,  lay,  an 
immovable  dead  load,  on  her  heart ;  seeming  to 
reproach  her  and  be  indignant  with  her,  and 
not  to  care  to  know  about  her.  .  .  .  '  You  are 
ours  in  spite  of  everything,'  she  seemed  to  hear. 
Even  her  poor  pets,  her  ill-used  birds  and 
animals  looked  at  her — so  at  least  she  fancied — 
173 


ON   THE   EVE 

with  suspicion  and  hostility.  She  felt  con- 
science-stricken and  ashamed  of  her  feelings. 
*  This  is  my  home  after  all,'  she  thought,  *  my 
family,  my  country.'  ...  *  No,  it 's  no  longer 
your  country,  nor  your  family,'  another  voice 
affirmed  within  her.  Terror  was  overmastering 
her,  and  she  was  vexed  with  her  own  feebleness. 
The  trial  was  only  beginning  and  she  was 
losing  patience  already.  .  .  Was  this  what 
she  had  promised  ? 

She  did  not  soon  gain  control  of  herself. 
But  a  week  passed  and  then  another.  .  .  , 
Elena  became  a  little  calmer,  and  grew  used  to 
her  new  position.  She  wrote  two  little  notes 
to  Insarov,  and  carried  them  herself  to  the 
post:  she  could  not  for  anything — through 
shame  and  through  pride — have  brought  her- 
self to  confide  in  a  maid.  She  was  already 
beginning  to  expect  him  in  person.  .  .  .  But 
instead  of  Insarov,  one  fine  morning  Nikolai 
Artemyevitch  made  his  appearance. 


174 


XXII 

No  one  in  the  house  of  the  retired  lieutenant  of 
guards,  Stahov,  had  ever  seen  him  so  sour,  and 
at  the  same  time  so  self-confident  and  important 
as  on  that  day.  He  walked  into  the  drawing- 
room  in  his  overcoat  and  hat,  with  long  deliberate 
stride,  stamping  with  his  heels  ;  he  approached 
the  looking-glass  and  took  a  long  look  at  him- 
self, shaking  his  head  and  biting  his  lips  with 
imperturbable  severity.  Anna  Vassilyevna  met 
him  with  obvious  agitation  and  secret  delight 
(she  never  met  him  otherwise) ;  he  did  not  even 
take  off  his  hat,  nor  greet  her,  and  in  silence 
gave  Elena  his  doe-skin  glove  to  kiss.  Anna 
Vassilyevna  began  questioning  him  about  the 
progress  of  his  cure ;  he  made  her  no  reply.  Uvar 
Ivanovitch  made  his  appearance  ;  he  glanced  at 
him  and  said,  *  bah ! '  He  usually  behaved 
coldly  and  haughtily  to  Uvar  Ivanovitch,  though 
he  acknowledged  in  him  *  traces  of  the  true 
Stahov  blood.'  Almost  all  Russian  families  of 
the  nobility  are  convinced,  as  is  well  known,  of 
175 


ON   THE   EVE 

the  existence  of  exceptional  hereditary  charac- 
teristics, peculiar  to  them  alone ;  we  have  more 
than  once  heard  discussions  'among  ourselves' 
of 'the  Podsalaskinsky '  noses,  and  the  '  Pere- 
preyevsky '  necks.  Zoya  came  in  and  sat  down 
facing  Nikolai  Artemyevitch.  He  grunted, 
sank  into  an  armchair,  asked  for  coffee,  and  only 
then  took  off  his  hat.  Coffee  was  brought  him  ; 
he  drank  a  cup,  and  looking  at  everybody  in 
turn,  he  growled  between  his  teeth,  *  Sortez,  sil 
vous  plait;  and  turning  to  his  wife  he  added,  '  et 
vouSy  madame,  restez^jc  vous  prie^ 

They  all  left  the  room,  except  Anna  Vassil- 
yevna.  Her  head  was  trembling  with  agitation. 
The  solemnity  of  Nikolai  Artemyevitch's  pre- 
parations impressed  her.  She  was  expecting 
something  extraordinary. 

*  What  is  it  ?  '  she  cried,  directly  the  door  was 
closed. 

Nikolai  Artemyevitch  flung  an  indifferent 
glance  at  Anna  Vassilyevna. 

*  Nothing  special  ;  what  a  way  you  have  of 
assuming  the  air  of  a  victim  at  once ! '  he  began, 
quite  needlessly  dropping  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  at  every  word.  '  I  only  want  to  fore- 
warn you  that  we  shall  have  a  new  guest  dining 
here  to-day.' 

'Who  is  it?' 

*  Kurnatovsky,   Yegor    Andreyevitch.      You 

176 


ON   THE   EVE 

don't  know  him.     The  head  secretary  in  the 
senate.' 

'  He  is  to  dine  with  us  to-day?' 

*Yes.' 

*  And  was  it  only  to  tell  me  this  that  you 
made  every  one  go  away  ? ' 

Nikolai  Artemyevitch  again  flung  a  glance 
— this  time  one  of  irony — at  Anna  Vassilyevna. 

'Does  that  surprise  you?  Defer  your  sur- 
prise a  little.' 

He  ceased  speaking.  Anna  Vassilyevna  too 
was  silent  for  a  little  time. 

*  I  could  have  wished '  she  was  beginning. 

'  I  know  you  have  always  looked  on  me  as  an 

"immoral"  man,'  began  Nikolai  Artemyevitch 
suddenly. 

'  I ! '  muttered  Anna  Vassilyevna,  astounded. 

*  And  very  likely  you  are  right.  I  don  't  wish 
to  deny  that  I  have  in  fact  sometimes  given  you 
just  grounds  for  dissatisfaction'  ("my  greys!" 
flashed  through  Anna  Vassilyevna's  head), 
'though  you  must  yourself  allow,  that  in  the 
condition,  as  you  are  aware,  of  your  constitu- 
tion  ' 

*  And  I  make  no  complaint  against  you, 
Nikolai  Artemyevitch.' 

'  C  est  possible.     In  any  case,  I  have  no  inten- 
tion of  justifying  myself.     Time  will  justify  me. 
But  I  regard  it  as  my  duty  to  prove  to  you  that 
177  w 


ON  THE   EVE 

I  understand  my  duties,  and  know  how  to  care 
for — for  the  welfare  of  the  family  entrusted — 
entrusted  to  me.' 

'What's  the  meaning  of  all  this?'  Anna 
Vassilyevna  was  thinking.  (She  could  not 
guess  that  the  preceding  evening  at  the  English 
club  a  discussion  had  arisen  in  a  corner  of  the 
smoking-room  as  to  the  incapacity  of  Russians 
to  make  speeches.  *  Which  of  us  can  speak  ? 
Mention  any  one  ! '  one  of  the  disputants  had 
exclaimed.  'Well,  Stahov,  for  instance,'  had 
answered  the  other,  pointing  to  Nikolai  Artem- 
yevitch,  who  stood  up  on  the  spot  almost 
squealing  with  delight.) 

'  For  instance,'  pursued  Nikolai  Artemyevitch, 
*  my  daughter  Elena.  Don't  you  consider  that 
the  time  has  come  for  her  to  take  a  decisive  step 
along  the  path — to  be  married,  I  mean  to  say. 
All  these  intellectual  and  philanthropic  pursuits 
are  all  very  well,  but  only  up  to  a  certain  point, 
up  to  a  certain  age.  It 's  time  for  her  to  drop 
her  mistiness,  to  get  out  of  the  society  of  all 
these  artists,  scholars,  and  Montenegrins,  and 
do  like  everybody  else.' 

*  How  am  I  to  understand  you  ? '  asked  Anna 
Vassilyevna. 

'Well,  if  you  will  kindly  listen,'  answered 
Nikolai  Artemyevitch,  still  with  the  same  drop- 
ping of  the  corners  of  his  lips,  *  I  will  tell  you 
178 


ON    THE   EVE 

plainly,  without  beating  about  the  bush.  I  have 
made  acquaintance,  I  have  become  intimate 
with  this  young  man,  Mr.  Kurnatovsky,  in  the 
hope  of  having  him  for  a  son-in-law.  I  venture 
to  think  that  when  you  see  him,  you  will  not 
accuse  me  of  partiality  or  precipitate  judgment' 
(Nikolai  Artemyevitch  was  admiring  his  own 
eloquence  as  he  talked.)  *  Of  excellent  educa- 
tion— educated  in  the  highest  legal  college — 
excellent  manners,  thirty-three  years  old,  and 
upper-secretary,  a  councillor,  and  a  Stanislas 
cross  on  his  neck.  You,  I  hope,  will  do  me 
the  justice  to  allow  that  I  do  not  belong  to  the 
number  of  those  peres  de  famille  who  are  mad 
for  position  ;  but  you  yourself  told  me  that 
Elena  Nikolaevna  likes  practical  business  men ; 
Yegor  Andreyevitch  is  in  the  first  place  a  busi- 
ness man  ;  now  on  the  other  side,  my  daughter 
has  a  weakness  for  generous  actions  ;  so  let  me 
tell  you  that  Yegor  Andreyevitch,  directly  he 
had  attained  the  possibility — you  understand 
me — the  possibility  of  living  without  privation 
on  his  salary,  at  once  gave  up  the  yearly  in- 
come assigned  him  by  his  father,  for  the  benefit 
of  his  brothers.' 

'  Who  is  his  father  ? '  inquired  Anna  Vassil- 
yevna. 

'His  father?  His  father  is  a  man  well- 
known  in  his  own  line,  of  the  highest  moral 
179 


ON  THE  EVE 

character,  un  vrai  stoicien,  a  retired  major,  I 
think,  overseer  of  all  the  estates  of  the  Count 
B ' 

*  Ah ! '  observed  Anna  Vassilyevna. 

*  Ah !  why  ah  ? '  interposed  Nikolai  Artem- 
yevitch.     *  Can  you  be  infected  with  prejudice?' 

'Why,  I  said  nothing '  Anna  Vassilyevna 

was  beginning. 

'  No,  you  said,  ah  ! — However  that  may  be,  I 
have  thought  it  well  to  acquaint  you  with  my 
way  of  thinking  ;  and  I  venture  to  think — I 
venture  to  hope  Mr.  Kurnatovsky  will  be  re- 
ceived a  bras  otiverts.  He  is  no  Montenegrin 
vagrant/ 

*  Of  course  ;  I  need  only  call  Vanka  the  cook 
and  order  a  few  extra  dishes.' 

'You  are  aware  that  I  will  not  enter  into 
that,'  said  Nikolai  Artemyevitch  ;  and  he  got 
up,  put  on  his  hat,  and  whistling  (he  had  heard 
some  one  say  that  whistling  was  only  permis- 
sible in  a  country  villa  and  a  riding  court) 
went  out  for  a  stroll  in  the  garden.  Shubin 
watched  him  out  of  the  little  window  of  his 
lodge,  and  in  silence  put  out  his  tongue  at 
him. 

At  ten  minutes  to  four,  a  hackney-carriage 

drove  up  to  the  steps  of  the  Stahovs's  villa,  and 

a  man,  still  young,  of  prepossessing  appearance, 

simply  and  elegantly  dressed,  stepped  out  of  it 

1 80 


ON   THE   EVB 

and  sent  up  his  name.  This  was  Yegor 
Andreyevitch  Kurnatovsky. 

This  was  what,  among  other  things,  Elena 
wrote  next  day  to  Insarov : 

*  Congratulate  me,  dear  Dmitri,  I  have  a 
suitor.  He  dined  with  us  yesterday  :  papa 
made  his  acquaintance  at  the  English  club,  I 
fancy,  and  invited  him.  Of  course  he  did  not 
come  yesterday  as  a  suitor.  But  good  mamma, 
to  whom  papa  had  made  known  his  hopes, 
whispered  in  my  ear  what  this  guest  was.  His 
name  is  Yegor  Andreyevitch  Kurnatovsky ;  he 
is  upper-secretary  to  the  Senate.  I  will  first  de- 
scribe to  you  his  appearance.  He  is  of  medium 
height,  shorter  than  you,  and  a  good  figure; 
his  features  are  regular,  he  is  close-cropped, 
and  wears  large  whiskers.  His  eyes  are 
rather  small  (like  yours),  brown,  and  quick ; 
he  has  a  flat  wide  mouth ;  in  his  eyes  and  on 
his  lips  there  is  a  perpetual  sort  of  official 
smile ;  it  seems  to  be  always  on  duty  there. 
He  behaves  very  simply  and  speaks  pre- 
cisely, and  everything  about  him  is  precise ; 
he  moves,  laughs,  and  eats  as  though  he  were 
doing  a  duty.  "  How  carefully  she  has  studied 
him ! "  you  are  thinking,  perhaps,  at  this 
minute.  Yes  ;  so  as  to  be  able  to  describe  him 
to  you.  And  besides,  who  wouldn't  study  her 
suitor  !  There 's  something  of  iron  in  him — 
i8i 


ON   THE   EVE 

and  dull  and  empty  at  the  same  time — and 
honest;  they  say  he  is  really  very  honest. 
You,  too,  are  made  of  iron  ;  but  not  like  this 
man.  At  dinner  he  sat  next  me,  and  facing  us 
sat  Shubin.  At  first  the  conversation  turned 
on  commercial  undertakings ;  they  say  he  is 
very  clever  in  business  matters,  and  was  almost 
throwing  up  his  government  post  to  take 
charge  of  a  large  manufacturing  business. 
Pity  he  didn't  do  it !  Then  Shubin  began  to 
talk  about  the  theatre ;  Mr.  Kurnatovsky  de- 
clared and — I  must  confess — without  false 
modesty,  that  he  has  no  ideas  about  art.  That 
reminded  me  of  you — but  I  thought ;  no, 
Dmitri  and  I  are  ignorant  of  art  in  a  very 
different  way  though.  This  man  seemed  to 
mean,  '  I  know  nothing  of  it,  and  it 's  quite 
superfluous,  still  it  may  be  admitted  in  a  well- 
ordered  state.'  He  seems,  however,  to  think 
very  little  about  Petersburg  and  comnie  ilfaut : 
he  once  even  called  himself  one  of  the  pro- 
letariat. *  We  are  working  people,'  he  said  ;  I 
thought  if  Dmitri  had  said  that,  I  shouldn't 
have  liked  it ;  but  he  may  talk  about  himself, 
he  may  boast  if  he  likes.  With  me  he  is  very 
attentive ;  but  I  kept  feeling  that  a  very,  very 
condescending  superior  was  talking  with  me. 
When  he  means  to  praise  any  one,  he  says  So- 
and-so  is  a  man  of  principle — that's  his  favourite 
182 


ON   TPIE   EVE 

word.  He  seems  to  be  self-confident,  hard- 
working, capable  of  self-sacrifice  (you  see,  I  am 
impartial),  that 's  to  say,  of  sacrificing  his  own 
interest ;  but  he  is  a  great  despot.  It  would 
be  woeful  to  fall  into  his  power !  At  dinner 
they  began  talking  about  bribes. 

' "  I  know,"  he  said,  "  that  in  many  cases  the 
man  who  accepts  a  bribe  is  not  to  blame  ;  he 
cannot  do  otherwise.     Still,  if  he  is  found  out, 
he  must  be  punished  without  mercy." 
*  I  cried,  "  Punish  an  innocent  man  !** 
*"  Yes  ;  for  the  sake  of  principle." 
*"What    principle?"    asked   Shubin.     Kur- 
natovsky  seemed   annoyed   or  surprised,   and 
said,  "That  needs  no  explanation." 

'  Papa,  who  seems  to  worship  him,  put  in  "  of 
course  not "  ;  and  to  my  vexation  the  conversa- 
tion stopped  there.  In  the  evening  Bersenyev 
came  and  got  into  a  terrific  argument  with 
him.  I  have  never  seen  our  good  Andrei 
Petrovitch  so  excited.  Mr.  Kurnatovsky  did 
not  at  all  deny  the  utility  of  science,  universities, 
and  so  on,  but  still  I  understood  Andrei  Petro- 
vitch's  indignation.  The  man  looks  at  it  all 
as  a  sort  of  gymnastics.  Shubin  came  up  to 
me  after  dinner,  and  said,  "This  fellow  here 
and  some  one  else  (he  can  never  bring  himself 
to  utter  your  name)  are  both  practical  men, 
but  see  what  a  difference  ;  there 's  the  real  living 
183 


ON   THE   EVE 

ideal  given  to  life ;  and  here  there 's  not  even  a 
feeling  of  duty,  simply  official  honesty  and 
activity  without  anything  inside  it."  Shubin  is 
clever,  and  I  remembered  his  words  to  tell  you ; 
but  to  my  mind  there  is  nothing  in  common 
between  you.  You  have  faith,  and  he  has  not ; 
for  a  man  cannot  have  faith  in  himself  only. 

*  He  did  not  go  away  till  late ;  but  mamma 
had  time  to  inform  me  that  he  was  pleased 
with  me,  and  papa  is  in  ecstasies.  Did  he  say, 
I  wonder,  that  I  was  a  woman  of  principle }  I 
was  almost  telling  mamma  that  I  was  very 
sorry,  but  I  had  a  husband  already.  Why  is  it 
papa  dislikes  you  so  ?  Mamma,  we  could  soon 
manage  to  bring  round. 

*  Oh,  my  dear  one!  I  have  described  this  gentle- 
man in  such  detail  to  deaden  my  heartache.  I 
don't  live  without  you  ;  I  am  constantly  seeing 
you,  hearing  you.  I  look  forward  to  seeing 
you — only  not  at  our  house,  as  you  intended — 
fancy  how  wretched  and  ill  at  ease  we  should 
be ! — but  you  know  where  1  wrote  to  you — in 
that  wood.  Oh,  my  dear  one  I  How  I  love  you  1  * 


184 


XXIII 

Three  weeks  after  Kurnatovsky's  first  visit, 
Anna  Vassilyevna,  to  Elena's  great  delight,  re- 
turned to  Moscow,  to  her  large  wooden  house 
near  Prechistenka  ;  a  house  with  columns,  white 
lyres  and  wreaths  over  every  window,  with 
an  attic,  offices,  a  palisade,  a  huge  green  court,  a 
well  in  the  court  and  a  dog's  kennel  near  the 
well.  Anna  Vassilyevna  had  never  left  her 
country  villa  so  early,  but  this  year  with  the 
first  autumn  chills  her  face  swelled  ;  Nikolai 
Artemyevitch  for  his  part,  having  finished  his 
cure,  began  to  want  his  wife  ;  besides,  Augus- 
tina  Christianovna  had  gone  away  on  a  visit  to 
her  cousin  in  Revel ;  a  family  of  foreigners, 
known  as  *  living  statues,'  des  poses  plastiques, 
had  come  to  Moscow,  and  the  description  of 
them  in  the  Moscow  Gazette  had  aroused  Anna 
Vassilyevna's  liveliest  curiosity.  In  short,  to 
stay  longer  at  the  villa  seemed  inconvenient, 
and  even,  in  Nikolai  Artemyevitch's  words,  in- 
compatible with  the  fulfilment  of  his  'cherished 
185 


ON  THE  EVE 

projects.*  The  last  fortnight  seemed  very  long 
to  Elena.  Kurnatovsky  came  over  twice  on 
Sundays;  on  other  days  he  was  busy.  He 
came  really  to  see  Elena,  but  talked  more 
to  Zoya,  who  was  much  pleased  with  him. 
*  Das  ist  ein  Mann! '  she  thought  to  herself,  as 
she  looked  at  his  full  manly  face  and  listened 
to  his  self-confident,  condescending  talk.  To 
her  mind,  no  one  had  such  a  wonderful  voice, 
no  one  could  pronounce  so  nicely,  *  I  had  the 
hon-our,'  or, '  I  am  most  de-lighted.'  Insarov 
did  not  come  to  the  Stahovs,  but  Elena  saw 
him  once  in  secret  in  a  little  copse  by  the 
Moskva  river,  where  she  arranged  to  meet 
him.  They  hardly  had  time  to  say  more  than 
a  few  words  to  each  other.  Shubin  returned 
to  Moscow  with  Anna  Vassilyevna ;  Bersenyev, 
a  few  days  later. 

Insarov  was  sitting  in  his  room,  and  for  the 
third  time  looking  through  the  letters  brought 
him  from  Bulgaria  by  hand  ;  they  were  afraid 
to  send  them  by  post.  He  was  much  disturbed 
by  them.  Events  were  developing  rapidly  in 
the  East ;  the  occupation  of  the  Principalities 
by  Russian  troops  had  thrown  all  men's  minds 
into  a  ferment ;  the  storm  was  growing — 
already  could  be  felt  the  breath  of  approach- 
ing inevitable  war.  The  fire  was  kindling  all 
round,  and  no  one  could  foresee  how  far  it 
i86 


ON   THE  EVE 

would  go — where  it  would  stop.  Old  wrongs, 
long  cherished  hopes — all  were  astir  again. 
Insarov's  heart  throbbed  eagerly  ;  his  hopes 
too  were  being  realised.  '  But  is  it  not  too 
soon,  will  it  not  be  in  vain  > '  he  thought, 
tightly  clasping  his  hands.  '  We  are  not  ready, 
but  so  be  it !  I  must  go.' 

Something  rustled  lightly  at  the  door,  it 
flew  quickly  open,  and  into  the  room  ran 
Elena. 

Insarov,  all  in  a  tremor,  rushed  to  her, 
fell  on  his  knees  before  her,  clasped  her  waist 
and  pressed  it  close  against  his  head. 

*  You  didn't  expect  me  ? '  she  said,  hardly 
able  to  draw  her  breath,  she  had  run  quickly  up 
the  stairs.  *  Dear  one  !  dear  one  I — so  this  is 
where  you  live }  I  Ve  quickly  found  you. 
The  daughter  of  your  landlord  conducted  me. 
We  arrived  the  day  before  yesterday.  I  meant 
to  write  to  you,  but  I  thought  I  had  better 
come  myself  I  have  come  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour.     Get  up,  shut  the  door.' 

He  got  up,  quickly  shut  the  door,  returned 
to  her  and  took  her  by  the  hands.  He  could 
not  speak  ;  he  was  choking  with  delight.  She 
looked  with  a  smile  into  his  eyes  .  .  .  there 
was  such  rapture  in  them  .  .  .  she  felt  shy. 

'Stay,'    she    said,  fondly    taking   her   hand 
away  from  him,  *  let  me  take  off  my  hat' 
187 


ON  THE  EVE 

She  untied  the  strings  of  her  hat,  flung  it 
down,  slipped  the  cape  off  her  shoulders,  tidied 
her  hair,  and  sat  down  on  the  little  old  sofa. 
Insarov  gazed  at  her,  without  stirring,  like  one 
enchanted. 

'  Sit  down,'  she  said,  not  lifting  her  eyes  to 
him  and  motioning  him  to  a  place  beside 
her. 

Insarov  sat  down,  not  on  the  sofa,  but  on 
the  floor  at  her  feet. 

'  Come,  take  off  my  gloves,'  she  said  in  an 
uncertain  voice.     She  felt  afraid. 

He  began  first  to  unbutton  and  then  to 
draw  off  one  glove  ;  he  drew  it  half  off  and 
greedily  pressed  his  lips  to  the  slender,  soft 
wrist,  which  was  white  under  it. 

Elena  shuddered,  and  would  have  pushed  him 
back  with  the  other  hand  ;  he  began  kissing 
the  other  hand  too.  Elena  drew  it  away,  he 
threw  back  his  head,  she  looked  into  his  face, 
bent  above  him,  and  their  lips  touched. 

An  instant  passed  .  .  .  she  broke  away,  got 
up,  whispered  *  No,  no/  and  went  quickly  up  to 
the  writing-table. 

'  I  am  mistress  here,  you  know,  so  you  ought 
not  to  have  any  secrets  from  me,'  she  said, 
trying  to  seem  at  ease,  and  standing  with  her 
back  to  him.  '  What  a  lot  of  papers  I  what 
are  these  letters  ? ' 

i88 


ON   THE   EVE 

Insarov  knitted  his  brows.     *  Those  letters? 
he  said,  getting  up,  *  you  can  read  them.' 

Elena  turned  them  over  in  her  hand.  *  There 
are  so  many  of  them,  and  the  writing  is  so  fine, 
and  I  have  to  go  directly  ...  let  them  be. 
They're  not  from  a  rival,  eh  .^  .  .  .  and  they're 
not  in  Russian,'  she  added,  turning  over  the 
thin  sheets. 

Insarov  came  close  to  her  and  fondly 
touched  her  waist.  She  turned  suddenly  to 
him,  smiled  brightly  at  him  and  leant  against 
his  shoulder. 

*  Those  letters  are  from  Bulgaria,  Elena ; 
my  friends  write  to  me,  they  want  me  to 
come.' 

'Now.?     To  them?" 

'  Yes  .  .  .  now,  while  there  is  still  time, 
while  it  is  still  possible  to  come.' 

All  at  once  she  flung  both  arms  round 
his  neck,  '  You  will  take  me  with  you, 
yes?' 

He  pressed  her  to  his  heart.  *  O  my  sweet 
girl,  O  my  heroine,  how  you  said  that !  But 
isn't  it  wicked,  isn't  it  mad  for  me,  a  homeless, 
solitary  man,  to  drag  you  with  me  .  .  ,  and 
out  there  too  ! ' 

She  shut  his  mouth.  ...  *  Sh — or  I  shall  be 
angry,  and  never  come  to  see  you  again.     Why 
isn't   it    all    decided,  all   settled  between  us  ? 
i89 


J 


ON   THE   EVE 

Am  I  not  your  wife?     Can  a  wife  be  parted 
from  her  husband  ? ' 

*  Wives  don't  go  into  war,'  he  said  with  a 
half-mournful  smile. 

'  Oh  yes,  when  they  can't  stay  behind,  and  I 
cannot  stay  here  ?  * 

'  Elena,  my  angel !  .  .  but  think,  I  have, 
perhaps,  to  leave  Moscow  in  a  fortnight.  I 
can't  think  of  university  lectures,  or  finishing 
my  work.' 

'  What ! '  interrupted  Elena,  '  you  have  to  go 
soon  ?  If  you  like,  I  will  stop  at  once  this 
minute  with  you  for  ever,  and  not  go  home, 
shall  I  ?     Shall  we  go  at  once  ? ' 

Insarov  clasped  her  in  his  arms  with  re- 
doubled warmth.  'May  God  so  reward  me 
then,'  he  cried,  '  if  I  am  doing  wrong  !  From 
to-day,  we  are  one  for  ever ! ' 

*  Am  I  to  stay  ? '  asked  Elena. 

*  No,  my  pure  girl  ;  no,  my  treasure.  You 
shall  go  back  home  to-day,  only  keep  yourself 
in  readiness.  This  is  a  matter  we  can't  manage 
straight  off;  we  must  plan  it  out  well  We 
want  money,  a  passport ' 

*  I  have  money,'  put  in  Elena.  *  Eighty 
roubles.' 

*Well,  that's  not  much,'  observed  Insarov; 
'but  everything's  a  help.' 

*  But  I  can  get  more.     I  will  borrow.     I  will 

190 


ON  THE  EVE 

ask  mamma.  .  .  .  No,  I  won't  ask  mamma 
for  any.  .  .  .  But  I  can  sell  my  watch.  ...  I 
have  earrings,  too,  and  two  bracelets  .  .  .  and 
lace.' 

*  Money 's  not  the  chief  difficulty,  Elena ; 
the  passport  ;  your  passport,  how  about 
that?' 

*  Yes,  how  about  it  ?  Is  a  passport  absolutely 
necessary  ? ' 

*  Absolutely.' 

Elena  laughed.  *  What  a  queer  idea  I  I 
remember  when  I  was  little  ...  a  maid  of  ours 
ran  away.  She  was  caught,  and  forgiven,  and 
lived  with  us  a  long  while  .  .  .  but  still  every  one 
used  to  call  her  Tatyana,  the  runaway.  I  never 
thought  then  that  I  too  might  perhaps  be  a 
runaway  like  her.* 

'  Elena,  aren't  you  ashamed  ? ' 

*  Why  ?  Of  course  it 's  better  to  go  with  a 
passport.     But  if  we  can't ' 

'  We  will  settle  all  that  later,  later,  wait  a 
little,'  said  Insarov.  '  Let  me  look  about ; 
let  me  think  a  little.  We  will  talk  over 
everything  together  thoroughly.  I  too  have 
money.' 

Elena  pushed  back  the  hair  that  fell  over  on 
his  forehead. 

*  O  Dmitri !  how  glorious  it  will  be  for  us 
two  to  set  off  together  ! ' 

191 


ON   THE   EVt 

*  Yes/  said  Insarov,  *  but  there,  when  we  get 
there ' 

*  Well  ? '  put  in  Elena,  '  and  won't  it  be 
glorious  to  die  together  too  ?  but  no,  why  should 
we  die?  We  will  live,  we  are  young.  How 
old  are  you  ?     Twenty-six  ? ' 

*  Yes,  twenty-six.' 

*  And  I  am  twenty.  There  is  plenty  of  time 
before  us.  Ah,  you  tried  to  run  away  from 
me  ?  You  did  not  want  a  Russian's  love,  you 
Bulgarian  !  Let  me  see  you  trying  to  escape 
from  me  now!  What  would  have  become  of 
us,  if  1  hadn't  come  to  you  then  ! ' 

'Elena,  you  know  what  forced  me  to  go 
away.' 

'  I  know ;  you  were  in  love,  and  you  were 
afraid.  But  surely  you  must  have  suspected 
that  you  were  loved  ? ' 

*  I  swear  on  my  honour,  Elena,  I  didn't' 
She   gave   him   a    quick    unexpected    kiss. 

*  There,  I  love  you  for  that  too.     And  good- 
bye.' 

*  You  can't  stop  longer?'  asked  Insarov. 

*  No,  dearest.  Do  you  think  it 's  easy  for  me 
to  get  out  alone  ?  The  quarter  of  an  hour  was 
over  long  ago.'  She  put  on  her  cape  and  hat. 
'  And  you  come  to  us  to-morrow  evening.  No, 
the  day  after  to-morrow.  We  shall  be  con- 
strained and  dreary,  but  we  can't  help  that ;  at 

192 


ON   THE   EVE 

least  we  shall  see  each  other.  Good-bye.  Let 
me  go.' 

He  embraced  her  for  the  last  time.  *Ah, 
take  care,  you  have  broken  my  watch-chain. 
Oh,  what  a  clumsy  boy  !  There,  never  mind. 
It's  all  the  better.  I  will  go  to  Kuznetsky 
bridge,  and  leave  it  to  be  mended.  If  I  am  asked, 
I  can  say  I  have  been  to  Kuznetsky  bridge.' 
She  held  the  door-handle.  *By-the-way,  I 
forgot  to  tell  you,  Monsieur  Kurnatovsky  will 
certainly  make  me  an  offer  in  a  day  or  two.    But 

the  answer  I  shall  make  him — will  be  this * 

She  put  the  thumb  of  her  left  hand  to  the  tip 
of  her  nose  and  flourished  the  other  fingers  in 
the  air.  '  Good-bye  till  we  see  each  other 
again.  Now,  I  know  the  way  .  .  .  And  don't 
lose  any  time.' 

Elena  opened  the  door  a  little,  listened, 
turned  round  to  Insarov,  nodded  her  head, 
and  glided  out  of  the  room. 

For  a  minute  Insarov  stood  before  the  closed 
door,  and  he  too  listened.  The  door  downstairs 
into  the  court  slammed.  He  went  up  to  the 
sofa,  sat  down,  and  covered  his  eyes  with  his 
hands.  Never  before  had  anything  like  this 
happened  to  him.  'What  have  I  done  to 
deserve  such  love?'  he  thought.  *Is  it  a 
dream  ? ' 

But  the  delicate  scent  of  mignonette  left  by 
193  N 


ON  THE   EVE 

Elena  in  his  poor  dark  little  room  told  of  her 
visit.  And  with  it,  it  seemed  that  the  air  was 
still  full  of  the  notes  of  a  young  voice,  and  the 
sound  of  a  light  young  tread,  and  the  warmth 
and  freshness  of  a  young  girlish  body. 


194 


XXTV 

INSAROV  decided  to  await  more  positive  news, 
and  began  to  make  preparations  for  departure. 
The  difficulty  was  a  serious  one.  For  him 
personally  there  were  no  obstacles.  He  had 
only  to  ask  for  a  passport — but  how  would  it 
be  with  Elena  ?  To  get  her  a  passport  in  the 
legal  way  was  impossible.  Should  he  marry 
her  secretly,  and  should  they  then  go  and 
present  themselves  to  the  parents  ?  .  .  .  '  They 
would  let  us  go  then,'  he  thought.  *  But  if  they 
did  not?  We  would  go  all  the  same.  But 
suppose  they  were  to  make  a  complaint  .  .  . 
if  .  .  .  No,  better  try  to  get  a  passport  some- 
how.' 

He  decided  to  consult  (of  course  mentioning 
no  names)  one  of  his  acquaintances,  an  attorney, 
retired  from  practice,  or  perhaps  struck  off 
the  rolls,  an  old  and  experienced  hand  at  all 
sorts  of  clandestine  business.  This  worthy 
person  did  not  live  near ;  Insarov  was  a  whole 
hour  in  getting  to  him  in  a  very  sorry  droshky, 
195 


ON   THE  EVE 

and,  to  make  matters  worse,  he  did  not 
find  him  at  home ;  and  on  his  way  back  got 
soaked  to  the  skin  by  a  sudden  downpour  of 
rain.  The  next  morning,  in  spite  of  a  rather 
severe  headache,  Insarov  set  off  a  second  time 
to  call  on  the  retired  attorney.  The  retired 
attorney  listened  to  him  attentively,  taking 
snuff  from  a  snuff-box  decorated  with  a  picture 
of  a  full-bosomed  nymph,  and  glancing 
stealthily  at  his  visitor  with  his  sly,  and  also 
snuff-coloured  little  eyes  ;  he  heard  him  to  the 
end,  and  then  demanded  'greater  definiteness 
in  the  statement  of  the  facts  of  the  case' ;  and 
observing  that  Insarov  was  unwilling  to  launch 
into  particulars  (it  was  against  the  grain  that 
he  had  come  to  him  at  all)  he  confined  himself 
to  the  advice  to  provide  himself  above  all 
things  with  'the  needful,'  and  asked  him  to 
come  to  him  again,  '  when  you  have,'  he  added, 
sniffing   at   the   snuff  in   the   open   snuff-box, 

*  augmented  your  confidence  and  decreased 
your  diflfidence'  (he  talked  with  a  broad  accent). 

*  A  passport,'  he  added,  as  though  to  himself, 

*  is  a  thing  that  can  be  arranged  ;  you  go  a 
journey,  for  instance;  who's  to  tell  whether 
you're  Marya  Bredihin  or  Karolina  Vogel- 
meier?'  A  feeling  of  nausea  came  over 
Insarov,  but  he  thanked  the  attorney,  and 
promised  to  come  to  him  again  in  a  day  or  two. 

ig6 


ON   THE   EVE 

The  same  evening  he  went  to  the  Stahovs. 
Anna  Vassilyevna  met  him  cordially,  re- 
proached him  a  little  for  having  quite  forgotten 
them,  and,  finding  him  pale,  inquired  especially 
after  his  health.  Nikolai  Artemyevitch  did 
not  say  a  single  word  to  him  ;  he  only  stared 
at  him  with  elaborately  careless  curiosity ; 
Shubin  treated  him  coldly ;  but  Elena  as- 
tounded him.  She  was  expecting  him ;  she 
had  put  on  for  him  the  very  dress  she  wore  on 
the  day  of  their  first  interview  in  the  chapel ; 
but  she  welcomed  him  so  calmly,  and  was  so 
polite  and  carelessly  gay,  that  no  one  looking 
at  her  could  have  believed  that  this  girl's  fate 
was  already  decided,  and  that  it  was  only  the 
secret  consciousness  of  happy  love  that  gave 
fire  to  her  features,  lightness  and  charm  to  all 
her  gestures.  She  poured  out  tea  in  Zoya's 
place,  jested,  chattered ;  she  knew  Shubin 
would  be  watching  her,  that  Insarov  was  in- 
capable of  wearing  a  mask,  and  incapable  of 
appearing  indifferent,  and  she  had  prepared 
herself  beforehand.  She  was  not  mistaken ; 
Shubin  never  took  his  eyes  off  her,  and 
Insarov  was  very  silent  and  gloomy  the  whole 
evening.  Elena  was  so  happy  that  she  even 
felt  an  inclination  to  tease  him. 

*  Oh,  by  the  way,'  she  said  to  him  suddenly, 
*  is  your  plan  getting  on  at  all  ? ' 

IQ7 


ON  THE  EVE 

Insarov  was  taken  aback. 

'  What  plan  ? '  he  said. 

'Why,  have  you  forgotten?'  she  rejoined, 
laughing  in  his  face ;  he  alone  could  tell  the 
meaning  of  that  happy  laugh  : '  Your  Bulgarian 
selections  for  Russian  readers  ? ' 

*  Quelle  bourde  !'  muttered  Nikolai  Artemye- 
vitch  between  his  teeth. 

Zoya  sat  down  to  the  piano.  Elena  gave  a 
just  perceptible  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  and 
with  her  eyes  motioned  Insarov  to  the  door. 
Then  she  twice  slowly  touched  the  table  with 
her  finger,  and  looked  at  him.  He  understood 
that  she  was  promising  to  see  him  in  two  days, 
and  she  gave  him  a  quick  smile  when  she  saw 
he  understood  her.  Insarov  got  up  and  began 
to  take  leave ;  he  felt  unwell.  Kurnatovsky 
arrived.  Nikolai  Artemyevitch  jumped  up, 
raised  his  right  hand  higher  than  his  head,  and 
softly  dropped  it  into  the  palm  of  the  chief 
secretary.  Insarov  would  have  remained  a 
few  minutes  longer,  to  have  a  look  at  his  rival. 
Elena  shook  her  head  unseen  ;  the  host  did 
not  think  it  necessary  to  introduce  them  to  one 
another,  and  Insarov  departed,  exchanging  one 
last  look  with  Elena.  Shubin  pondered  and 
pondered,  and  threw  himself  into  a  fierce  argu- 
ment with  Kurnatovsky  on  a  legislative  ques- 
tion, about  which  he  had  not  a  single  idea. 
198 


ON   THE  EVE 

Insarov  did  not  sleep  all  night,  and  in  the 
morning  he  felt  very  ill ;  he  set  to  work,  how- 
ever, putting  his  papers  into  order  and  writing 
letters,  but  his  head  was  heavy  and  confused. 
At  dinner  time  he  began  to  be  in  a  fever  ;  he 
could  eat  nothing.  The  fever  grew  rapidly 
worse  towards  evening  ;  he  had  aching  pains  in 
all  his  limbs,  and  a  terrible  headache.  Insarov 
lay  down  on  the  very  little  sofa  on  which 
Elena  had  lately  sat ;  he  thought :  *  It  serves 
me  right  for  going  to  that  old  rascal,'  and  he 
tried  to  sleep.  .  .  .  But  the  illness  had  by  now 
complete  mastery  of  him.  His  veins  were 
throbbing  violently,  his  blood  was  on  fire,  his 
thoughts  were  flying  round  like  birds.  He  sank 
into  forgetfulness.  He  lay  like  a  man  felled  by 
a  blow  on  his  face,  and  suddenly,  it  seemed  to 
him,  some  one  was  softly  laughing  and  whis- 
pering over  him  :  he  opened  his  eyes  with  an 
effort,  the  light  of  the  flaring  candle  smote  him 
like  a  knife.  .  .  .  What  was  it  ?  the  old  attorney 
was  before  him  in  an  Oriental  silk  gown 
belted  with  a  silk  handkerchief,  as  he  had  seen 
him  the  evening  before.  ...  *  Karolina  Vogel- 
meier,'  muttered  his  toothless  mouth.  Insarov 
stared,  and  the  old  man  grew  wide  and  thick 
and  tall,  he  was  no  longer  a  man,  he  was  a  tree. 
.  .  .  Insarov  had  to  climb  along  its  gnarled 
branches.  He  clung,  and  fell  with  his  breast  on 
199 


ON   THE  EVE 

a  sharp  stone,  and  Karolina  Vogelmeier  was 
sitting  on  her  heels,  looking  like  a  pedlar- 
woman,  and  lisping  :  *  Pies,  pies,  pies  for  sale'; 
and  there  were  streams  of  blood  and  swords 
flashing  incessantly.  .  .  .  Elena !  And  every- 
thing vanished  in  a  crimson  chaos. 


XXV 

*  There's  some  one  here  looks  like  a  lock- 
smith or  something  of  the  sort/  Bersenyev  was 
informed  the  following  evening  by  his  servant, 
who  was  distinguished  by  a  severe  deportment 
and  sceptical  turn  of  mind  towards  his  master; 
'  he  wants  to  see  you.' 

*  Ask  him  in,'  said  Bersenyev. 

The  *  locksmith  '  entered.  Bersenyev  recog- 
nised in  him  the  tailor,  the  landlord  of 
Insarov's  lodgings. 

'  What  do  you  want  ? '  he  asked  him. 

*  I  came  to  your  honour,'  began  the  tailor, 
shifting  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  and  at  times 
waving  his  right  hand  with  his  cuff  clutched  in 
his  three  last  fingers.  *  Our  lodger,  seemingly, 
is  very  ill.' 

*  Insarov  } ' 

*  Yes,  our  lodger,  to  be  sure ;  yesterday 
morning  he  was  still  on  his  legs,  in  the 
evening  he  asked  for  nothing  but  drink  ;  the 
missis  took  him  some  water,  and  at  night  he 

20 1 


ON  THE  EVE 

began  talking  away ;  we  could  hear  him 
through  the  partition-wall ;  and  this  morning 
he  lies  without  a  word  like  a  log,  and  the 
fever  he 's  in,  Lord  have  mercy  on  us ! 
I  thought,  upon  my  word,  he'll  die  for 
sure ;  I  ought  to  send  word  to  the  police 
station,  I  thought.  For  he 's  so  alone  ;  but  the 
missis  said  :  **  Go  to  that  gentleman,"  she  says, 
"  at  whose  country  place  our  lodger  stayed  ; 
maybe  he  '11  tell  you  what  to  do,  or  come  him- 
self." So  I  've  come  to  your  honour,  for  we 
can't,  so  to  say ' 

Bersenyev  snatched  up  his  cap,  thrust  a 
rouble  into  the  tailor's  hand,  and  at  once  set  off 
with  him  post  haste  to  Insarov's  lodgings. 

He  found  him  lying  on  the  sofa,  unconscious 
and  not  undressed.  His  face  was  terribly 
changed.  Bersenyev  at  once  ordered  the  people 
of  the  house  to  undress  him  and  put  him  to 
bed,  while  he  rushed  off  himself  and  returned 
with  a  doctor.  The  doctor  prescribed  leeches, 
mustard-poultices,  and  calomel,  and  ordered 
him  to  be  bled. 

*  Is  he  dangerously  ill  > '  asked  Bersenyev. 

*  Yes,  very  dangerously,'  answered  the  doctor. 
*  Severe  inflammation  of  the  lungs ;  peripneu- 
monia fully  developed,  and  the  brain  perhaps 
affected,  but  the  patient  is  young.  His  very 
strength  is  something  against  him  now.     I  was 

202 


ON  THE  EVE 

sent  for  too  late  ;  still  we  will  do  all  that  science 
dictates.' 

The  doctor  was  young  himself,  and  still  be- 
lieved in  science. 

Bersenyev  stayed  the  night.  The  people  of 
the  house  seemed  kind,  and  even  prompt 
directly  there  was  some  one  to  tell  them  what 
was  to  be  done.  An  assistant  arrived,  and 
began  to  carry  out  the  medical  measures. 

Towards  morning  Insarov  revived  for  a  few 
minutes,  recognised  Bersenyev,  asked :  *  Am  I 
ill,  then  ? '  looked  about  him  with  the  vague, 
listless  bewilderment  of  a  man  dangerously  ill, 
and  again  relapsed  into  unconsciousness.  Ber- 
senyev went  home,  changed  his  clothes,  and, 
taking  a  few  books  along  with  him,  he  returned 
to  Insarov's  lodgings.  He  made  up  his  mind 
to  stay  there,  at  least  for  a  time.  He  shut  in 
Insarov's  bed  with  screens,  and  arranged  a 
little  place  for  himself  by  the  sofa.  The  day 
passed  slowly  and  drearily.  Bersenyev  did  not 
leave  the  room  except  to  get  his  dinner.  The 
evening  came.  He  lighted  a  candle  with  a 
shade,  and  settled  down  to  a  book.  Everything 
was  still  around.  Through  the  partition  wall 
could  be  heard  suppressed  whispering  in  the 
landlord's  room,  then  a  yawn,  and  a  sigh.  Some 
one  sneezed,  and  was  scolded  in  a  whisper ; 
behind  the  screen  was  heard  the  patient's  heavy 
203 


ON   THE   EVE 

uneven  breathing,  sometimes  broken  by  a  short 
groan,  and  the  uneasy  tossing  of  his  head  on 
the  pillow.  .  .  .  Strange  fancies  came  over  Ber- 
senyev.  He  found  himself  in  the  room  of  a 
man  whose  life  was  hanging  on  a  thread,  the 
man  whom,  as  he  knew,  Elena  loved.  ...  He 
remembered  that  night  when  Shubin  had  over- 
taken him  and  declared  that  she  loved  him, 
him,  Bersenyev !  And  now.  .  .  .  '  What  am  I 
to  do  now  ? '  he  asked  himself.  *  Let  Elena 
know  of  his  illness?  Wait  a  little?  This 
would  be  worse  news  for  her  than  what  I  told 
her  once  before ;  strange  how  fate  makes  me 
the  go-between  between  them  ! '  He  made  up 
his  mind  that  it  was  better  to  wait  a  little.  His 
eyes  fell  on  the  table  covered  with  heaps  of 
papers.  .  .  *  Will  he  carry  out  his  dreams  ?  * 
thought  Bersenyev.  'Can  it  be  that  all  will 
come  to  nothing  ? '  And  he  was  filled  with 
pity  for  the  young  life  struck  down,  and  he 
vowed  to  himself  to  save  it. 

The  night  was  an  uneasy  one.  The  sick  man 
was  very  delirious.  Several  times  Bersenyev 
got  up  from  his  little  sofa,  approached  the  bed 
on  tip-toe,  and  listened  with  a  heavy  heart  to 
his  disconnected  muttering.  Only  once  Insarov 
spoke  with  sudden  distinctness :  '  I  won't,  I 
won't,  she  mustn't.  .  .  .'  Bersenyev  started  and 
looked  at  Insarov;  his  face,  suffering  and  death- 
204 


ON   THE   EVE 

like  at  the  same  time,  was  immovable,  and  his 
hands  lay  powerless.  *I  won't,'  he  repeated, 
scarcely  audibly. 

The  doctor  came  in  the  morning,  shook  his 
head  and  wrote  fresh  prescriptions.  'The 
crisis  is  a  long  way  off  still,'  he  said,  putting  on 
his  hat. 

*  And  after  the  crisis  ?  *  asked  Bersenyev. 

*  The  crisis  may  end  in  two  ways,  aut  Ccesar 
aut  nihil! 

The  doctor  went  away.  Bersenyev  walked  a 
few  times  up  and  down  the  street ;  he  felt  in 
need  of  fresh  air.  He  went  back  and  took  up  a 
book  again.  Raumer  he  had  finished  long  ago  ; 
he  was  now  making  a  study  of  Grote. 

Suddenly  the  door  softly  creaked,  and  the 
head  of  the  landlord's  daughter,  covered  as 
usual  with  a  heavy  kerchief,  was  cautiously 
thrust  into  the  room. 

'  Here  is  the  lady/  she  whispered,  '  who  gave 
me  a  silver  piece.' 

The  child's  head  vanished  quickly,  and  in  its 
place  appeared  Elena. 

Bersenyev  jumped  up  as  if  he  had  been  stung; 
but  Elena  did  not  stir,  nor  cry  out.  It  seemed 
as  if  she  understood  everything  in  a  single 
instant.  A  terrible  pallor  overspread  her  face, 
she  went  up  to  the  screen,  looked  behind  it, 
threw  up  her  arms,  and  seemed  turned  to  stone. 
205 


ON   THE  EVE 

A  moment  more  and  she  would  have  flung  her- 
self on  Insarov,  but  Bersenyev  stopped  her. 
'  What  are  you  doing  ? '  he  said  in  a  trembling 
whisper,  *  you  might  be  the  death  of  him  ! ' 

She  was  reeling.  He  led  her  to  the  sofa,  and 
made  her  sit  down. 

She  looked  into  his  face,  then  her  eyes  run 
over  him  from  head  to  foot,  then  stared  at  the 
floor. 

'Will  he  die?'  she  asked  so  coldly  and 
quietly  that  Bersenyev  was  frightened. 

'For  God's  sake,  Elena  Nikolaevna,'  he  began, 
*what  are  you  saying?  He  is  ill  certainly — 
and  rather  seriously — but  we  will  save  him  ;  I 
promise  you  that' 

*He  is  unconscious?'  she  asked  in  the  same 
tone  of  voice  as  before. 

'Yes,  he  is  unconscious  at  present.  That's 
always  the  case  at  the  early  stage  of  these 
illnesses,  but  it  means  nothing,  nothing  —  I 
assure  you.     Drink  some  water.* 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and  he  saw  she 
had  not  heard  his  answer. 

'  If  he  dies,'  she  said  in  the  same  voice,'  I  will 
die  too.' 

At  that  instant  Insarov  uttered  a  slight 
moan ;  she  trembled  all  over,  clutched  at  her 
head,  then  began  untying  the  strings  of  her 
hat. 

206 


ON   THE   EVE 

*What  are  you  doing?*  Bersenyev  asked 
her. 

'  I  will  stay  here.' 

*  You  will  stay — for  long  ? ' 

*I  don't  know,  perhaps  all  day,  the  night, 
always — I  don 't  know.* 

*  For  God's  sake,  Elena  Nikolaevna,  control 
yourself.  I  could  not  of  course  have  any 
expectation  of  seeing  you  here ;  but  still  I — 
assume  you  have  come  for  a  short  time.  Re- 
member they  may  miss  you  at  home.* 

*  What  then  ? ' 

*  They  will  look  for  you — find  you ' 

'What  then?' 

*  Elena  Nikolaevna  1  You  see.  He  cannot 
now  protect  you.' 

She  dropped  her  head,  seemed  lost  in  thought, 
raised  a  handkerchief  to  her  lips,  and  convulsive 
sobs,  tearing  her  by  their  violence,  were  sud- 
denly wrung  from  her  breast.  She  threw  her- 
self, face  downwards,  on  the  sofa,  trying  to 
stifle  them,  but  still  her  body  heaved  and 
throbbed  like  a  captured  bird. 

*  Elena  Nikolaevna — for  God's  sake,'  Bersen- 
yev was  repeating  over  her. 

*  Ah  !  What  is  it  ? '  suddenly  sounded  the 
voice  of  Insarov. 

Elena  started  up,  and  Bersenyev  felt  rooted 
to  the  spot.      After  waiting  a  little,  he  went  up 
207 


ON   THE   EVE 

to  the  bed.      Insarov's  head  lay  on  the  pillow 
helpless  as  before  ;  his  eyes  were  closed. 

*  Is  he  delirious  ? '  whispered  Elena. 

*  It  seems  so,'  answered  Bersenyev,  '  but 
that 's  nothing ;  it 's  always  so,  especially 
if ' 

*  When  was  he  taken  ill  ?'  Elena  broke  in. 

*  The  day  before  yesterday  ;  I  have  been  here 
since  yesterday.  Rely  on  me,  Elena  Niko- 
laevna.  I  will  not  leave  him  ;  everything  shall 
be  done.  If  necessary,  we  will  have  a  consulta- 
tion.' 

'  He  will  die  without  me,'  she  cried,  wringing 
her  hands. 

*  I  give  you  my  word  I  will  let  you  hear  every 
day  how  his  illness  goes  on,  and  if  there  should 
be  immediate  danger ' 

*  Swear  you  will  send  for  me  at  once  when- 
ever it  may  be,  day  or  night,  write  a  note  straight 
to  me — I  care  for  nothing  now.  Do  you  hear  ? 
you  promise  you  will  do  that  ?  * 

*  I  promise  before  God.' 

*  Swear  it* 

*  I  swear.' 

She  suddenly  snatched  his  hand,  and  before 
he  had  time  to  pull  it  away,  she  had  bent  and 
pressed  her  lips  to  it. 

*  Elena  Nikolaevna,  what  are  you '  he 

stammered 

208 


ON  THE  EVE 

*  No — no — I    won't    have    it '    I  iisarov 

muttered  indistinctly,  and  sighed  painfully. 

Elena  went  up  to  the  screen,  her  handker- 
chief pressed  between  her  teeth,  and  bent  a 
long,  long  look  on  the  sick  man.  Silent  tears 
rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

*  Elena  Nikolaevna,'  Bersenyrv  said  to  her, 
*  he  might  come  to  himself  and  recognise  you  ; 
there  *s  no  knowing  if  that  wouldn't  do  harm. 
Besides,  from  hour  to  hour  I  expect  the  doctor.* 

Elena  took  her  hat  from  the  sofa,  put  it  on 
and  stood  still.  Her  eyes  strayed  mournfully 
over  the  room.  She  seemed  to  be  remember- 
ing. .  .  . 

'  I  cannot  go  away/  she  whispered  at  last. 

Bersenyev  pressed  her  hand :  *  Try  to  pull 
yourself  together,'  he  said,  '  calm  yourself ;  you 
are  leaving  him  in  my  care.  I  will  come  to  you 
this  very  evening.' 

Elena  looked  at  him,  said :  *  Oh,  my  good, 
kind  friend ! '  broke  into  sobs  and  rushed 
away. 

Bersenyev  leaned  against  the  door.  A  feel- 
ing of  sorrow  and  bitterness,  not  without  a  kind 
of  strange  consolation,  overcame  him.  '  My 
good,  kind  friend!'  he  thought  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

*  Who  is  here?'  he  heard  Insarov's  voice. 
Bersenyev  went  up  to  him.  *  I  am  here,  Dmitri 

209  o 


ON  THE  EVE 

Nikanorovitch.  How  are  you  ?  How  do  yoo 
feel?' 

'  Are  you  alone  ? '  asked  the  sick  man. 

'Yes.' 

'And  she?' 

'Whom  do  you  mean?*  Bersenyev  asked 
almost  in  dismay. 

Insarov  was  silent.  *  Mignonette,'  he  mur- 
mured, and  his  cyQS  closed  again. 


»io 


XXVI 

For  eight  whole  days  Insarov  lay  between  life 
and  death.  The  doctor  was  incessantly  visit- 
ing him,  interested  as  a  young  man  in  a  diffi- 
cult case.  Shubin  heard  of  Insarov's  critical 
position,  and  made  inquiries  after  him.  His 
compatriots — Bulgarians — came;  among  them 
Bersenyev  recognised  the  two  strange  figures, 
who  had  puzzled  him  by  their  unexpected  visit 
to  the  cottage ;  they  all  showed  genuine  sym- 
pathy, some  offered  to  take  Bersenyev's  place 
by  the  patient's  bed-side ;  but  he  would  not 
consent  to  that,  remembering  his  promise  to 
Elena.  He  saw  her  every  day  and  secretly 
reported  to  her — sometimes  by  word  of  mouth, 
sometimes  in  a  brief  note — every  detail  of  the 
illness.  With  what  sinkings  of  the  heart  she 
awaited  him,  how  she  listened  and  questioned 
him  !  She  was  always  on  the  point  of  hasten- 
ing to  Insarov  herself;  but  Bersenyev  begged 
her  not  to  do  this:  Insarov  was  seldom  alone. 
On  the  first  day  she  knew  of  his  illness  she 

211 


ON   THE   EVE 

herself  had  almost  fallen  ill ;  directly  she  got 
home,  she  shut  herself  up  in  her  room  ;  but  she 
was  summoned  to  dinner,  and  appeared  in  the 
dining-room  with  such  a  face  that  Anna  Vas- 
silyevna  was  alarmed,  and  was  anxious  to  put 
her  to  bed.  Elena  succeeded,  however,  in  con- 
trolling herself  *  If  he  dies,'  she  repeated,  '  it 
will  be  the  end  of  me  too.'  This  thought 
tranquillised  her,  and  enabled  her  to  seem  in- 
different. Besides  no  one  troubled  her  much  ; 
Anna  Vassilyevna  was  taken  up  with  her 
swollen  face  ;  Shubin  was  working  furiously ; 
Zoya  was  given  up  to  pensiveness,  and  dis- 
posed to  read  Werther\  Nikolai  Artemyevitch 
was  much  displeased  at  the  frequent  visits  of 
'  the  scholar,'  especially  as  his  '  cherished  pro- 
jects '  in  regard  to  Kurnatovsky  were  making 
no  way ;  the  practical  chief  secretary  was 
puzzled  and  biding  his  time.  Elena  did  not 
even  thank  Bersenyev ;  there  are  services  for 
which  thanks  are  cruel  and  shameful.  Only 
once  at  her  fourth  interview  with  him — Insarov 
had  passed  a  very  bad  night,  the  doctor  had 
hinted  at  a  consultation — only  then  she  re- 
minded him  of  his  promise.  *  Very  well,  then 
let  us  go,'  he  said  to  her.  She  got  up  and  was 
going  to  get  ready.  '  No,'  he  decided,  '  let  us 
wait  till  to-morrow.'  Towards  evening  Insarov 
was  rather  better. 

212 


ON    THE   EVE 

For  eight  days  this  torture  was  prolongred 
Elena  appeared  calm ;  but  she  could  eat 
nothing,  and  did  not  sleep  at  night  There 
was  a  dull  ache  in  all  her  limbs ;  her  head 
seemed  full  of  a  sort  of  dry  burning  smoke. 
*  Our  young  lady 's  wasting  like  a  candle,'  her 
maid  said  of  her. 

At  last  by  the  ninth  day  the  crisis  was  pass- 
ing over.  Elena  was  sitting  in  the  drawing-room 
near  Anna  Vassilyevna,  and,  without  knowing 
herself  what  she  was  doing,  was  reading  her  the 
Moscow  Gazette ;  Bersenyev  came  in.  Elena 
glanced  at  him — how  rapid,  and  fearful,  and 
penetrating,  and  tremulous,  was  the  first  glance 
she  turned  on  him  every  time — and  at  once  shf^ 
guessed  that  he  brought  good  news.  He  was 
smiling  ;  he  nodded  slightly  to  her,  she  got  up 
to  go  and  meet  him. 

'  He  has  regained  consciousness,  he  is  saved, 
he  will  be  quite  well  again  in  a  week,'  he 
whispered  to  her. 

Elena  had  stretched  out  her  arm  as  though 
to  ward  off  a  blow,  and  she  said  nothing,  only 
her  lips  trembled  and  a  flush  of  crimson  over- 
spread her  whole  face.  Bersenyev  began  to 
talk  to  Anna  Vassilyevna,  and  Elena  went  off 
to  her  own  room,  dropped  on  her  knees  and  fell 
to  praying,  to  thanking  God.  Light,  shining 
tears  trickled  down  her  cheeks.      Suddenly  she 

213 


ON   THE   EVE 

was  conscious  of  intense  weariness,  laid  her  head 
down  on  the  pillow,  whispered  'poor  Andrei 
Petrovitch ! '  and  at  once  fell  asleep  with  wet 
cheeks  and  eyelashes.  It  was  long  since  she 
had  slept  or  wept 


914 


XXVII 

Bersenyev*S  words  turned  out  only  partly 
true ;  the  danger  was  over,  but  Insarov  gained 
strength  slowly,  and  the  doctor  talked  of  a  com- 
plete undermining  of  the  whole  system.  The 
patient  left  his  bed  for  all  that,  and  began  to 
walk  about  the  room  ;  Bersenyev  went  home  to 
his  own  lodging,  but  he  came  every  day  to  his 
still  feeble  friend  ;  and  every  day  as  before  he 
informed  Elena  of  the  state  of  his  health. 
Insarov  did  not  dare  to  write  to  her,  and  only 
indirectly  in  his  conversations  with  Bersenyev 
referred  to  her ;  but  Bersenyev,  with  assumed 
carelessness,  told  him  about  his  visits  to  the 
Stahovs,  trying,  however,  to  give  him  to  under- 
stand that  Elena  had  been  deeply  distressed, 
and  that  now  she  was  calmer.  Elena  too  did 
not  write  to  Insarov;  she  had  a  plan  in  her 
head. 

One  day  Bersenyev  had  just  informed  her 
with  a  cheerful  face  that  the  doctor  had  already 
allowed  Insarov  to  eat  a  cutlet,  and  that  he 
"5 


ON   THE   EVE 

would    probably   soon    go    out ;    she    seemed 
absorbed,  dropped  her  eyes. 

*  Guess,  what  I  want  to  say  to  you,'  she 
said.  Bersenyev  was  confused.  He  understood 
her. 

*  I  vSuppose,'  he  answered,  looking  away,  *  you 
want  to  say  that  you  wish  to  see  him.* 

Elena  crimsoned,  and  scarcely  audibly,  she 
breathed,  *  Yes.' 

'  Well,  what  then  ?  That,  I  imagine,  you  can 
easily  do.' — *  Ugh ! '  he  thought, '  what  a  loath- 
some feeling  there  is  in  my  heart  I ' 

'You  mean  that  I  have  already  before  .  .  / 
said  Elena.  '  But  I  am  afraid — now  he  is,  you 
say,  seldom  alone.* 

*  That 's  not  difficult  to  get  over,'  replied  Ber- 
senyev, still  not  looking  at  her.  *  I,  of  course, 
cannot  prepare  him  ;  but  give  me  a  note.  Who 
can  hinder  your  writing  to  him  as  a  good 
friend,  in  whom  you  take  an  interest  ?  There 's 
no  harm  in  that.  Appoint — I  mean,  write  to 
him  when  you  will  come. 

'  I  am  ashamed,'  whispered  Elena. 

*  Give  me  the  note,  I  will  take  it' 

'  There 's  no  need  of  that,  but  1  wanted  to  ask 
you — don't  be  angry  with  me,  Andrei  Petro- 
vitch — don  *t  go  to  him  to-morrow  ! ' 

Bersenyev  bit  his  lip. 

*  Ah !  yes,  I  understand  ;  very  well,  very  well, 

216 


ON   THE   EVE 

and,  adding  two  or  three  words  more,  he  quickly 
took  leave. 

*  So  much  the  better,  so  much  the  better,'  he 
thought,  as  he  hurried  home.  *  I  have  learnt 
nothing  new,  but  so  much  the  better.  What 
possessed  me  to  go  hanging  on  to  the  edge  of 
another  man's  happiness  ?  I  regret  nothing  ;  I 
have  done  what  my  conscience  told  me ;  but  now 
it  is  over.  Let  them  be !  My  father  was  right 
when  he  used  to  say  to  me :  "  You  and  I,  my 
dear  boy,  are  not  Sybarites,  we  are  not  aristo- 
crats, we're  not  the  spoilt  darlings  of  fortune  and 
nature,  we  are  not  even  martyrs — we  are  work- 
men and  nothing  more.  Put  on  your  leather 
apron,  workman,  and  take  your  place  at  your 
workman's  bench,  in  your  dark  workshop,  and 
let  the  sun  shine  on  other  men !  Even  our 
dull  life  has  its  own  pride,  its  own  happiness  1 " ' 

The  next  morning  Insarov  got  a  brief  note 
by  the  post.  *  Expect  me,'  Elena  wrote  to  him, 
'  and  give  orders  for  no  one  to  see  you.  A.  P. 
will  not  come.' 


»I7 


XXVIII 

Insarov  read  Elena's  note,  and  at  once  began 
to  set  his  room  to  rights  ;  asked  his  landlady  to 
take  away  the  medicine-glasses,  took  off  his 
dressing-gown  and  put  on  his  coat.  His  head 
was  swimming  and  his  heart  throbbing  from 
weakness  and  delight.  His  knees  were  shaking  ; 
he  dropped  on  to  the  sofa,  and  began  to  look  at 
his  watch.  '  It 's  now  a  quarter  to  twelve,'  he 
said  to  himself  '  She  can  never  come  before 
twelve:  I  will  think  of  something  else  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  or  I  shall  break  down 
altogether.  Before  twelve  she  cannot  possibly 
come.* 

The  door  was  opened,  and  in  a  light  silk 
gown,  all  pale,  all  fresh,  young  and  joyful, 
Elena  came  in,  and  with  a  faint  cry  of  delight 
she  fell  on  his  breast 

*You  are  alive,  you  are  mine,'  she  repeated, 
embracing  and  stroking  his  head  He  was 
almost  swooning,  breathless  at  such  closeness, 
such  caresses,  such  bliss. 

2X8 


ON    THE   EVE 

She  sat  down  near  him,  holding  him  fast,  and 
began  to  gaze  at  him  with  that  smiling,  and 
caressing,  and  tender  look,  only  to  be  seen 
shining  in  the  eyes  of  a  loving  woman. 

Her  face  suddenly  clouded  over. 

*  How  thin  you  have  grown,  my  poor  Dmitri/ 
she  said,  passing  her  hand  over  his  neck  ;  *  what 
a  beard  you  have.' 

*  And  you  have  grown  thin,  my  poor  Elena/ 
he  answered,  catching  her  fingers  with  his  lips. 

She  shook  her  curls  gaily. 

'That's  nothing.  You  shall  see  how  soon 
we  '11  be  strong  again  !  The  storm  has  blown 
over,  just  as  it  blew  over  and  passed  away  that 
day  when  we  met  in  the  chapel.  Now  we  are 
going  to  live.' 

He  answered  her  with  a  smile  only. 

*  Ah,  what  a  time  we  have  had,  Dmitri,  what 
a  cruel  time !  How  can  people  outlive  those 
they  love?  I  knew  beforehand  what  Andrei 
Petrovitch  would  say  to  me  every  day,  I  did 
really ;  my  life  seemed  to  ebb  and  flow  with 
yours.     Welcome  back,  my  Dmitri ! ' 

He  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  her.  He 
was  longing  to  throw  himself  at  her  feet. 

'  Another  thing    I    observed/   she   went   on, 

pushing    back    his   hair — *  I    made    so    many 

observations  all  this  time  in  my  leisure — when 

any  one   is   very,   very    miserable,   with   what 

319 


ON    THE   EVE 

stupid  attention  he  follows  everything  that's 
going  on  about  him  !  I  really  sometimes  lost 
myself  in  gazing  at  a  fly,  and  all  the  while 
such  chill  and  terror  in  my  heart !  But  that 's 
all  past,  all  past,  isn't  it  ?  Everything 's  bright 
in  the  future,  isn't  it  ? ' 

*  You  are  for  me  in  the  future,'  answered 
Insarov,  *  so  it  is  bright  for  me.' 

*  And  for  me  too !  But  do  you  remember, 
when  I  was  here,  not  the  last  time — no,  not 
the  last  time,'  she  repeated  with  an  involuntary 
shudder,  'when  we  were  talking,  I  spoke  of 
death,  I  don't  know  why ;  I  never  suspected 
then  that  it  was  keeping  watch  on  us.  But  you 
are  well  now,  aren't  you  ? ' 

*  I  'm  much  better,  I  'm  nearly  well/ 

'  You  are  well,  you  are  not  dead.  Oh,  how 
happy  I  am  ! ' 

A  short  silence  followed. 
,  *  Elena?'  said  Insarov. 

\     ;  '  Well,  my  dearest  ?  * 

'   '  *Tell  me,  did  it  never  occur  to  you  that  this 

illness  was  sent  us  as  a  punishment  ?  * 
Elena  looked  seriously  at  him. 
*That  idea  did  come  into  my  head,  Dmitri. 
But  I  thought :  what  am  I  to  be  punished  for  ? 
What  duty  have  I  transgressed,  against  whom 
have  I  sinned  ?     Perhaps  my  conscience  is  not 
like  other  people's,  but  it  was  silent ;  or  perhaps 
220 


ON   THE   EVE 

I  am   guilty  towards  you  ?     1    hinder  you,    I 
stop  you.' 

*You  don't  stop  me,  Elena;  we  will  go 
together.' 

*  Yes,  Dmitri,  let  us  go  together  ;  I  will  follow 
you.  .  .  .  That  is  my  duty.  I  love  you.  ...  I 
know  no  other  duty.' 

'O  Elena!'  said  Insarov,  'what  chains  every 
word  of  yours  fastens  on  me  ! ' 

*  Why  talk  of  chains  ? '  she  interposed.  *  We 
are  free  people,  you  and  I.  Yes,'  she  went  on, 
looking  musingly  on  the  floor,  while  with  one 
hand  she  still  stroked  his  hair,  *  I  experienced 
much  lately  of  which  I  had  never  had  any  idea ! 
If  any  one  had  told  me  beforehand  that  I,  a 
young  lady,  well  brought  up,  should  go  out 
from  home  alone  on  all  sorts  of  made-up 
excuses,  and  to  go  where  ?  to  a  young  man's 
lodgings — how  indignant  I  should  have  been ! 
And  that  has  all  come  about,  and  I  feel  no 
indignation  whatever.  Really  I '  she  added,  and 
turned  to  Insarov. 

He  looked  at  her  with  such  an  expression  of 
adoration,  that  she  softly  dropped  her  hand 
from  his  hair  over  his  eyes. 

*  Dmitri ! '  she  began  again,  *  you  don't  know 
of  course,  I  saw  you  there  in  that  dreadful  bed, 
I  saw  you  in  the  clutches  of  death,  unconscious.* 

'  You  saw  me  ? ' 

221 


ON    THE  EVE 

*Yes/ 

He  was  silent  for  a  little.  '  And  Bersenyev 
was  here  ? ' 

She  nodded. 

Insarov  bowed  down  before  her.  *  O  Elena  !  * 
he  whispered,  *  I  don't  dare  to  look  at  you.' 

*Why?  Andrei  Petrovitch  is  so  good.  I 
was  not  ashamed  before  him.  And  what  have 
I  to  be  ashamed  of?  I  am  ready  to  tell  all 
the  world  that  I  am  yours.  .  .  .  And  Andrei 
Petrovitch  I  trust  like  a  brother.' 

'  He  saved  me ! '  cried  Insarov.  '  He  is  the 
noblest,  kindest  of  men  ! ' 

'  Yes  .  . .  And  do  you  know  I  owe  everything 
to  him  ?  Do  you  know  that  it  was  he  who  first 
told  me  that  you  loved  me  ?  And  if  I  could 
tell  you  everything.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  is  a  noble 
man.' 

Insarov  looked  steadily  at  Elena.  *  He  is  in 
love  with  you,  isn't  he  } ' 

Elena  dropped  her  eyes.  *  He  did  love  me/ 
she  said  in  an  undertone. 

Insarov  pressed  her  hand  warmly.  *  Oh  you 
Russians,'  he  said,  'you  have  hearts  of  pure 
gold  !  And  he,  he  has  been  waiting  on  me,  he 
has  not  slept  at  night.  And  you,  you,  my 
angel.  ...  No  reproaches,  no  hesitations  ,  .  . 
and  all  this  for  me,  for  me * 

*  Yes,  yts,  all  for  you,  because  they  love  you. 

222 


ON   THE  EVE 

Ah,  Dmitri !  How  strange  it  is !  I  think  I 
have  talked  to  you  of  it  before,  but  it  doesn't 
matter,  I  like  to  repeat  it,  and  you  will  like  to 
hear  it.     When  I  saw  you  the  first  time * 

*  Why  are  there  tears  in  your  eyes  ? '  Insarov 
interrupted  her. 

*  Tears  ?  Are  there  ?  '  She  wiped  her  eyes 
with  her  handkerchief.  '  Oh,  what  a  silly  boy ! 
He  doesn't  know  yet  that  people  weep  from 
happiness.  I  wanted  to  tell  you :  when  I  saw 
you  the  first  time,  I  saw  nothing  special  in  you, 
really.  I  remember,  Shubin  struck  me  much 
more  at  first,  though  I  never  loved  him,  and  as 
for  Andrei  Petrovitch — oh !  there  was  a 
moment  when  I  thought:  isn't  this  ^?  And 
with  you  there  was  nothing  of  that  sort ;  but 
afterwards — afterwards — you  took  my  heart  by 
storm  I ' 

*  Have  pity  on  me,'  began  Insarov.  He 
tried  to  get  up,  but  dropped  down  on  to  the 
sofa  again  at  once. 

•What's  the  matter  with  you?'  inquired 
Elena  anxiously. 

'  Nothing.  ...  I  am  still  rather  weak.  I  am 
not  strong  enough  yet  for  such  happiness.' 

*  Then  sit  quietly.  Don't  dare  to  move,  don't 
get  excited,'  she  added,  threatening  him  with 
her  finger.  '  And  why  have  you  left  off  your 
dressing-gown  ?     It 's  too  soon  to  begin  to  be  a 

223 


ON   THE  EVE 

dandy  !  Sit  down  and  I  will  tell  you  stories 
Listen  and  be  quiet.  To  talk  much  is  bad  for 
you  after  your  illness.* 

She  began  to  talk  to  him  about  Shubin, 
about  Kurnatovsky,  and  what  she  had  been 
doing  for  the  last  fortnight,  of  how  war  seemed, 
judging  from  the  newspapers,  inevitable,  and  so 
directly  he  was  perfectly  well  again,  he  must, 
without  losing  a  minute,  make  arrangements 
for  them  to  start.  All  this  she  told  him  sitting 
beside  him,  leaning  on  his  shoulder.  .  .  . 

He  listened  to  her,  listened,  turning  pale  and 
red.  Sometimes  he  tried  to  stop  her  ;  suddenly 
he  drew  himself  up. 

*  Elena,'  he  said  to  her  in  a  strange,  hard  voice 
*  leave  me,  go  away.' 

*  What  ?  '  she  replied  in  bewilderment  *  You 
feel  ill  ? '  she  added  quickly. 

*  No  .  •  ,  I  'm  all  right  .  .  .  but,  please,  leave 
me  now.* 

*  I  don't  understand  you.  You  drive  me 
away  ?  .  .  What  are  you  doing  ? '  she  said  sud- 
denly ;  he  had  bent  over  from  the  sofa  almost 
to  the  ground,  and  was  pressing  her  feet  to  his 
lips.    *  Don't  do  that,  Dmitri.  .  .  .  Dmitri * 

He  got  up. 

*  Then  leave  me !  You  see,  Elena,  when  I 
was  taken  ill,  I  did  not  lose  consciousness  at 
first ;  I  knew  I  was  on  the  edge  of  the  abyss  ; 

224 


ON    THE   EVE 

even  in  the  fever,  in  delirium  I  knew,  I  felt 
vaguely  that  it  was  death  coming  to  me,  I  took 
leave  of  life,  of  you,  of  everything ;  I  gave  up 
hope.  .  .  .  And  this  return  to  life  so  suddenly ; 
this  light  after  the  darkness,  you  —  you  — 
near  me,  with  me — your  voice,  your  breath. 
.  .  .  It 's  more  than  I  can  stand !  I  feel  I  love 
you  passionately,  I  hear  you  call  yourself  mine, 
I  cannot  answer  for  myself.  .  .  You  must  go  ! ' 

*  Dmitri,'  whispered  Elena,  and  she  nestled 
her  head  on  his  shoulder.  Only  now  she  under- 
stood him. 

*  Elena,'  he  went  on, '  I  love  you,  you  know 
that ;  I  am  ready  to  give  my  life  for  you.  .  .  . 
Why  have  you  come  to  me  now,  when  I  am 
weak,  when  I  can't  control  myself,  when  all  my 
blood 's  on  fire  .  .  .  you  are  mine,  you  say  .  .  . 
you  love  me ' 

*  Dmitri,'  she  repeated  ;  she  flushed  all  over, 
and  pressed  still  closer  to  him. 

*  Elena,  have  pity  on  me ;  go  away,  I  feel  as 
if  I  should  die.  ...  I  can't  stand  these  violent 
emotions  .  .  .  my  whole  soul  yearns  for  you 
.  .  .  think,  death  was  almost  parting  us  .  . 
and  now  you  are  here,  you  are  in  my  arms  .  .  . 
Elena ' 

She  was  trembling  all  over.  *  Take  me,  then,'' 
she  whispered  scarcely  above  her  breath. 


22; 


XXIX 

Nikolai  Artemyevitch  was  walking  up  and 
down  in  his  study  with  a  scowl  on  his  face. 
Shubin  was  sitting  at  the  window  with  his  legs 
crossed,  tranquilly  smoking  a  cigar. 

*  Leave  off  tramping  from  corner  to  corner, 
please/  he  observed,  knocking  the  ash  off  his 
cigar.  '  I  keep  expecting  you  to  speak  ;  there 's 
a  rick  in  my  neck  from  watching  you.  Besides, 
there 's  something  artificial,  melodramatic  in  your 
striding.' 

'You  can  never  do  anything  but  joke,'  re- 
sponded Nikolai  Artemyevitch.  'You  won't 
enter  into  my  position,  you  refuse  to  realise 
that  I  am  used  to  that  woman,  that  I  am  at- 
tached to  her  in  fact,  that  her  absence  is  bound 
to  distress  me.  Here  it 's  October,  winter  is 
upon  us.  ,  .  .  What  can  she  be  doing  in 
Revel  ? ' 

'She  must  be  knitting  stockings  —  for  her- 
self; for  herself — not  for  you.' 

*  You  may  laugh,  you  may  laugh  ;  but  I  tell 

226 


ON    THE  EVE 

you  I  know  no  woman  like  her.     Such  honesty, 
such  disinterestedness/ 

'  Has  she  cashed  that  bill  yet  ? '  inquired 
Shubin. 

*  Such  disinterestedness/  repeated  Nikolai 
Artemyevitch  ;  '  it 's  astonishing.  They  tell  me 
there  are  a  million  other  women  in  the  world, 
but  I  say,  show  me  the  million ;  show  me  the 
million,  I  say  ;  ces  femmes,  qii'on  me  les  montre  ! 
And  she  doesn't  write — that's  what's  killing 
me  ! ' 

*  You  're  eloquent  as  Pythagoras,'  remarked 
Shubin  ;  *  but  do  you  know  what  I  would  advise 
you? ' 

'What?' 

'  When  Augustina  Christianovna  comes  back 
—you  take  my  meaning  ?   ' 

*  Yes,  yes  ;  well,  what  ? ' 

*When  you  see  her  again — you  follow  the 
line  of  my  thought  ?  * 

*  Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure.' 

*  Try  beating  her  ;  see  what  that  would  do.' 
Nikolai     Artemyevitch    turned     away     ex- 
asperated. 

'  I  thought  he  was  really  going  to  give  me 
some  practical  advice.  But  what  can  one 
expect  from  him !  An  artist,  a  man  of  no 
principles ' 

*  No  principles  !    By  the  way,  I  'm  told  your 

227 


ON   THE  EVE 

favourite  Mr.  Kurnatovsky,  the  man  of  prin- 
ciple, cleaned  you  out  of  a  hundred  roubles  last 
night.  That  was  hardly  delicate,  you  must  own 
now.' 

'What  of  it?  We  were  playing  high.  Of 
course,  I  might  expect  —  but  they  under- 
stand so  little  how  to  appreciate  him  in  this 
house ' 

'  That  he  thought :  get  what  I  can ! '  put  in 
Shubin :  *  whether  he 's  to  be  my  father-in-law 
or  not,  is  still  on  the  knees  of  the  gods,  but 
a  hundred  roubles  is  worth  something  to  a  man 
who  doesn't  take  bribes.' 

'Father-in-law!  How  the  devil  am  I  his 
father-in-law?  Vous  revez,  mon  cher.  Of 
course,  any  other  girl  would  be  delighted  with 
such  a  suitor.  Only  consider :  a  man  of  spirit 
and  intellect,  who  has  gained  a  position  in  the 
world,  served  in  two  provinces ' 

*Led  the  governor  in  one  of  them  by  the 
nose,'  remarked  Shubin. 

*  Very  likely.  To  be  sure,  that 's  how  it  should 
be.    Practical,  a  business  man ' 

*  And  a  capital  hand  at  cards,*  Shubin  re- 
marked again. 

*To  be  sure,  and  a  capital  hand  at  cards. 
But  Elena  Nikolaevna.  ...  Is  there  any  under- 
standing her?  I  should  be  glad  to  know  if 
there  is  any  one  who  would  undertake  to  make 

228 


ON    THE  EVE 

out  what  it  IS  she  wants.  One  day  she 's  cheer- 
ful, another  she 's  dull ;  all  of  a  sudden  she 's 
so  thin  there's  no  looking  at  her,  and  then 
suddenly   she's  well    again,   and    all    without 

any  apparent  reason ' 

A  disagreeable-looking  man-servant  came  in 
with  a  cup  of  coffee,  cream  and  sugar  on  a  tray. 

*  The  father  is  pleased  with  a  suitor,'  pursued 
Nikolai  Artemyevitch,  breaking  off  a  lump  of 
sugar;  *  but  what  is  that  to  the  daughter  !  That 
was  all  very  well  in  the  old  patriarchal  days^ 
but  now  we  have  changed  all  that.  Nous  avons 
chang^  tout  ga.  Nowadays  a  young  girl  talks 
to  any  one  she  thinks  fit,  reads  what  she 
thinks  fit ;  she  goes  about  Moscow  alone  with- 
out a  groom  or  a  maid,  just  as  in  Paris ;  and 
all  that  is  permitted.  The  other  day  I  asked, 
"Where  is  Elena  Nikolaevna?"  'I'm  told  she 
has  gone  out.  Where  ?  No  one  knows.  Is  that 
— the  proper  thing  ? ' 

*  Take  your  coffee,  and  let  the  man  go,'  said 
Shubin.  *  You  say  yourself  that  one  ought  not 
devant  les  domestiquesl  he  added  in  an  under- 
tone. 

The  servant  gave  Shubin  a  dubious  look, 
while  Nikolai  Artemyevitch  took  the  cup  of 
coffee,  added  some  cream,  and  seized  some  ten 
lumps  of  sugar. 

'  I  was  just  going  to  say  when  the  servant 
229 


ON   THE  EVE 

came  in/  he  began,  *  that  I  count  for  nothing  in 
this  house.  That's  the  long  and  short  of 
the  matter.  For  nowadays  every  one  judges 
from  appearances  ;  one  man  's  an  empty-headed 
fool,  but  gives  himself  airs  of  importance,  and 
he 's  respected  ;  while  another,  very  likely,  has 
talents  which  might  —  which  might  gain  him 
great  distinction,  but  through  modesty ' 

*  Aren't  you  a  born  statesman  ? '  asked  Shubin 
in  a  jeering  voice. 

*  Give  over  playing  the  fool ! '  Nikolai  Artem- 
yevitch  cried  with  heat.  'You  forget  yourself! 
Here  you  have  another  proof  that  I  count  for 
nothing  in  this  house,  nothing  ! ' 

*Anna  Vassilyevna  ill-uses  you  .  .  .  poor 
fellow  ! '  said  Shubin,  stretching.  '  Ah,  Nikolai 
Artemyevitch,  we  're  a  pair  of  sinners !  You 
had  much  better  be  getting  a  little  present 
ready  for  Anna  Vassilyevna,  It 's  her  birthday 
in  a  day  or  two,  and  you  know  how  she  appre- 
ciates the  least  attention  on  your  part.' 

*Yes,  yes,'  answered  Nikolai  Artemyevitch 
hastily.  '  I  'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  remind- 
ing me.  Of  course,  of  course ;  to  be  sure.  I 
have  a  little  thing,  a  dressing-case,  I  bought  it 
the  other  day  at  Rosenstrauch's  ;  but  I  don't 
know  really  if  it  will  do.' 

*  I  suppose  you  bought  it  for  her,  the  lady 
at  Revel?' 

230 


ON    THE   EVE 

*  Why,  certainly. — I  had  some  idea/ 

*Well,  in  that  case,  it  will  be  sure  to  do.' 
Shubin  got  up  from  his  seat. 

*  Are  we  going  out  this  evening,  Pavel  Yakov- 
litch,  eh  ? '  Nikolai  Artemyevitch  asked  with 
an  amicable  leer. 

*  Why  yes,  you  are  going  to  your  club.' 
'  After  the  club  .  .  .  after  the  club.' 
Shubin  stretched  himself  again. 

*  I^o,  Nikolai  Artemyevitch,  I  want  to  work 
to-morrow.  Another  time.'  And  he  walked 
off. 

Nikolai  Artemyevitch  scowled,  walked  twice 
up  and  down  the  room,  took  a  velvet  box  with 
the  dressing-case  out  of  the  bureau  and  looked 
at  it  a  long  while,  rubbing  it  with  a  silk  hand- 
kerchief. Then  he  sat  down  before  a  looking- 
glass  and  began  carefully  arranging  his  thick 
black  hair,  turning  his  head  to  right  and  to  left 
with  a  dignified  countenance,  his  tongue 
pressed  into  his  cheek,  never  taking  his  eyes 
off  his  parting.  Some  one  coughed  behind  his 
back ;  he  looked  round  and  saw  the  man- 
servant who  had  brought  him  in  his  coffee. 

*  What  do  you  want  ? '  he  asked  him. 

*  Nikolai  Artemyevitch,'  said  the  man  with  a 
certain  solemnity,  *  you  are  our  master  ?  ' 

*  I  know  that ;  what  next ! ' 

*  Nikolai  Artemyevitch,  graciously  do  not  be 

231 


ON   THE   EVE 

angry  with  me  ;  but  I,  having  been  in  your 
honour's  service  from  a  boy,  am  bound  in  duti- 
ful devotion  to  bring  you ' 

*  Wen  what  is  it  ? ' 

The  man  shifted  uneasily  as  he  stood. 

*  You  condescended  to  say,  your  honour,'  he 
began,  *  that  your  honour  did  not  know  where 
Elena  Nikolaevna  was  pleased  to  go.  I  have 
information  about  that* 

*  What  lies  are  you  telling,  idiot  ? ' 

*  That 's  as  your  honour  likes,  but  I  saw  our 
young  lady  three  days  ago,  as  she  was  pleased 
to  go  into  a  house ! ' 

*  Where  ?  what  ?  what  house  ? ' 

*  In  a  house,  near  Povarsky.  Not  far 
from  here.  I  even  asked  the  doorkeeper  who 
were  the  people  living  there.' 

Nikolai  Artemyevitch  stamped  with  his  feet. 

*  Silence,  scoundrel !  How  dare  you  ?  .  .  . 
Elena  Nikolaevna,  in  the  goodness  of  her  heart, 
goes  to  visit  the  poor  and  you  ...  Be  off,  fool ! ' 

The  terrified  servant  was  rushing  to  the  door. 

*  Stop  ! '  cried  Nikolai  Artemyevitch.  *  What 
did  the  doorkeeper  say  to  you  ?  ' 

*  Oh  no — nothing — he  said  nothing — He  told 
me — a  stu — student ' 

*  Silence,  scoundrel !  Listen,  you  dirty  beast ; 
if  you  ever  breathe  a  word  in  your  dreams 
even ' 

232 


ON  THE  EVE 


*  Mercy  on  us- 


•  Silence  !  if  you  blab — if  any  one — if  I  find 
out — you  shall  find  no  hiding-place  even 
underground  !     Do  you  hear  ?     You  can  go  1  * 

The  man  vanished. 

*  Good  Heavens,  merciful  powers  !  what  does 
it  mean  ? '  thought  Nikolai  Artemyevitch  when 
he  was  left  alone.  '  What  did  that  idiot  tell 
me  ?  Eh  ?  I  shall  have  to  find  out,  though,  what 
house  it  is,  and  who  lives  there.  I  must  go 
myself.  Has  it  come  to  this  I  ,  ,  .  Un  laquais  t 
Quelle  humiliation  I ' 

And  repeating  aloud  :  *  Un  laquais  !  *  Nikolai 
Artemyevitch  shut  the  dressing-case  up  in  the 
bureau,  and  went  up  to  Anna  Vassilyevna. 
He  found  her  in  bed  with  her  face  tied  up.  But 
the  sight  of  her  sufferings  only  irritated  him, 
and  he  very  soon  reduced  her  to  tears. 


233 


XXX 

Meanwhile  the  storm  gathering  tn  the  East 
was  breaking.  Turkey  had  declared  war  on 
Russia ;  the  time  fixed  for  the  evacuation  of 
the  Principalities  had  already  expired,  the  day 
of  the  disaster  of  Sinope  was  not  far  off.  The 
last  letters  received  by  Insarov  summoned  him 
urgently  to  his  country.  His  health  was  not  yet 
restored  ;  he  coughed,  suffered  from  weakness 
and  slight  attacks  of  fever,  but  he  was  scarcely 
ever  at  home.  His  heart  was  fired,  he  no  longer 
thought  of  his  illness.  He  was  for  ever  rushing 
about  Moscow,  having  secret  interviews  with 
various  persons,  writing  for  whole  nights,  dis- 
appearing for  whole  days  ;  he  had  informed  his 
landlord  that  he  was  going  away  shortly,  and 
had  presented  him  already  with  his  scanty 
furniture.  Elena  too  on  her  side  was  getting 
ready  for  departure.  One  wet  evening  she  was 
sitting  in  her  room,  and  listening  with  involun- 
tary depression  to  the  sighing  of  the  wind,  while 
she  hemmed  handkerchiefs  Her  maid  came  in 
234 


ON    THE   EVE 

and  told  her  that  her  father  was  in  her  mother's 
room  and  sent  for  her  there.  '  Your  mamma  is 
crying/  she  whispered  after  the  retreating  Elena, 
*  and  your  papa  is  angry.' 

Elena  gave  a  slight  shrug  and  went  into 
Anna  Vassilyevna's  room.  Nikolai  Artemye- 
vitch's  kind-hearted  spouse  was  half  lying  on  a 
reclining  chair,  sniffing  a  handkerchief  steeped 
in  can  de  Cologne ;  he  himself  was  standing  at 
the  hearth,  every  button  buttoned  up,  in  a 
high,  hard  cravat,  with  a  stiffly  starched  collar  ; 
his  deportment  had  a  vague  suggestion  of 
some  parliamentary  orator.  With  an  orator's 
wave  of  the  arm  he  motioned  his  daughter  to  a 
chair,  and  when  she,  not  understanding  his  ges- 
ture, looked  inquiringly  at  him,  he  brought  out 
with  dignity,  without  turning  his  head  :  '  I  beg 
you  to  be  seated.'  Nikolai  Artemyevitch 
always  used  the  formal  plural  in  addressing  his 
wife,  but  only  on  extraordinary  occasions  in 
addressing  his  daughter. 

Elena  sat  down. 

Anna  Vassilyevna  blew  her  nose  tearfully. 
Nikolai  Artemyevitch  thrust  his  fingers  between 
his  coat-buttons. 

'  I  sent  for  you,  Elena  Nikolaevna,'  he  began 

after  a  protracted  silence,  *  in  order  to  have  an 

explanation  with  you,  or  rather  in  order  to  ask 

you  for  an  explanation.     I  am  displeased  with 

235 


ON   THE  EVE 

you — or  no — that  is  too  little  to  say:  your 
behaviour  is  a  pain  and  an  outrage  to  me — 
to  me  and  to  your  mother — your  mother  whom 
you  see  here.' 

Nikolai  Artemyevitch  was  giving  vent  only  to 
the  few  bass  notes  in  his  voice.  Elena  gazed  in 
silence  at  him,  then  at  Anna  Vassilyevna  and 
turned  pale. 

*  There  was  a  time/  Nikolai  Artemyevitch 
resumed,  '  when  daughters  did  not  allow  them- 
selves to  look  down  on  their  parents — when  the 
parental  authority  forced  the  disobedient  to 
tremble.  That  time  has  passed,  unhappily  :  so 
at  least  many  persons  imagine  ;  but  let  me  tell 
you,  there  are  still  laws  which  do  not  permit — 
do  not  permit — in  fact  there  are  still  laws.  I 
beg  you  to  mark  that :  there  are  still  laws ' 

*  But,  papa,'  Elena  was  beginning. 

*  I  beg  you  not  to  interrupt  me.  Let  us  turn 
in  thought  to  the  past  I  and  Anna  Vassilyevna 
have  performed  our  duty,  I  and  Anna 
Vassilyevna  have  spared  nothing  in  your 
education :  neither  care  nor  expense.  What 
you  have  gained  from  our  care — is  a  different 
question  ;  but  I  had  the  right  to  expect — I 
and  Anna  Vassilyevna  had  the  right  to  expect 
that  you  would  at  least  hold  sacred  the  prin- 
ciples of  morality  which  we  have — que  nous 
avons  inculqueSy  which  we  have    instilled   into 

2-^6 


ON   THE   EVE 

you,  our  only  daughter.  We  had  the  right 
to  expect  that  no  new  "  ideas  "  could  touch  that, 
so  to  speak,  holy  shrine.  And  what  do  we 
find?  I  am  not  now  speaking  of  frivolities 
characteristic  of  your  sex,  and  age,  but  who 
could  have  anticipated  that  you  could  so  far  for- 
get yourself ' 

'  Papa,'  said  Elena,  *  I  know  what  you  are  go- 
ing to  say ' 

'  No,  you  don't  know  what  I  am  going  to 
say ! '  cried  Nikolai  Artemyevitch  in  a  falsetto 
shriek,  suddenly  losing  the  majesty  of  his 
oratorical  pose,  the  smooth  dignity  of  his  speech, 
and  his  bass  notes.   '  You  don't  know,  vile  hussy ! ' 

'  For  mercy's  sake,  Nicolas^  murmured  Anna 
Vassilyevna,  ^  vous  me  faites  mourir.' 

'Don't  tell  vciQ  que je  vous  fais  inotiriry  Anna 
Vassilyevna !  You  can't  conceive  what  you  will 
hear  directly  !  Prepare  yourself  for  the  worst,  I 
warn  you ! ' 

Anna  Vassilyevna  seemed  stupefied. 

*  No,'  resumed  Nikolai  Artemyevitch,  turning 
to  Elena, '  you  don't  know  what  I  am  going  to 
say  1 ' 

*  I  am  to  blame  towards  you '  she  began. 

'  Ah,  at  last ! ' 

*  I  am  to  blame  towards  you,'  pursued  Elena, 
*  for  not  having  long  ago  confessed * 

*But  do  you   know,'  Nikolai  Artemyevitch 
237 


ON   THE   EVE 

interrupted,  *that  I  can  crush  you  with  one 
word  ? ' 

Elena  raised  her  eyes  to  look  at  him. 

'  Yes,  madam,  with  one  word  !  It 's  useless  to 
look  at  me ! '  (He  crossed  his  arms  on  his 
breast.)  *  Allow  me  to  ask  you,  do  you  know 
a  certain  house  near  Povarsky?  Have  you 
visited  that  house  ? '  (He  stamped.)  *  Answer 
me,  worthless  girl,  and  don't  try  to  hide  the 
truth.  People,  people,  servants,  madam,  de  vils 
laquais  have  seen  you,  as  you  went  in  there,  to 
your ' 

Elena  was  crimson,  her  eyes  were  blazing. 

*  I  have  no  need  to  hide  anything,'  she 
declared.     *  Yes,  I  have  visited  that  house.' 

*  Exactly  !  Do  you  hear,  do  you  hear,  Anna 
Vassilyevna  ?  And  you  know,  I  presume,  who 
lives  there  ? ' 

*  Yes,  I  know  ;  my  husband.' 

Nikolai  Artemyevitch's  eyes  were  starting  out 
of  his  head. 
« Your ' 

*  My  husband,'  repeated  Elena  ;  *  I  am  married 
to  Dmitri  Nikanorovitch  Insarov.' 

*  You  ? — married  ?' — was  all  Anna  Vassilyevna 
could  articulate. 

'Yes,  mamma.  .  .  .  Forgive  me.  A  fort- 
night ago,  we  were  secretly  married.' 

Anna  Vassilyevna  fell   back   in   her   chair; 
238 


ON    THE   EVE 

ISfikolai  Artemyevitch  stepped  two  paces 
back. 

'  Married !  To  that  vagrant,  that  Monte- 
negrin !  the  daughter  of  Nikolai  Stahov  of  the 
higher  nobility  married  to  a  vagrant,  a  nobody, 
without  her  parents'  sanction !  And  you  im- 
agine I  shall  let  the  matter  rest,  that  I  shall 
not  make  a  complaint,    that  I  will   allow  you 

— that  you — that To  the  nunnery  with  you, 

and  he  shall  go  to  prison,  to  hard  labour! 
Anna  Vassilyevna,  inform  her  at  once  that 
you  will  cut  off  her  inheritance  ! ' 

•  Nikolai  Artemyevitch,  for  God's  sake,' 
moaned  Anna  Vassilyevna. 

'And  when  and  how  was  this  done?  Who 
married  you  ?  where  ?  how  ?  Good  God  !  what 
will  all  our  friends  think,  what  will  the  world 
say !  And  you,  shameless  hypocrite,  could  go  on 
living  under  your  parents'  roof  after  such  an 
act!  Had  you  no  fear  of — the  wrath  of 
heaven  ? ' 

'  Papa '  said  Elena  (she  was  trembling  from 
head  to  foot  but  her  voice  was  steady),  *  you  are 
at  liberty  to  do  with  me  as  you  please,  but  you 
need  not  accuse  me  of  shamelessness,  and 
hypocrisy.  I  did  not  want — to  give  you  pain 
before,  but  I  should  have  had  to  tell  you  all 
myself  in  a  few  days,  because  we  are  going  away 
— my  husband  and  I — from  here  next  week/ 
239 


ON   THE   EVE 

•    *  Going  away  ?    Where  to  ? ' 

*  To  his  own  country,  to  Bulgaria. ' 

'  To  the  Turks  ! '  cried  Anna  Vassilyevna  and 
fell  into  a  swoon. 

Elena  ran  to  her  mother. 

*Away!'  clamoured  Nikolai  Artemyevitch, 
seizing  his  daughter  by  the  arm,  'away,  un- 
worthy girl ! ' 

But  at  that  instant  the  door  of  the  room 
opened,  and  a  pale  face  with  glittering  eyos 
appeared  :  it  was  the  face  of  Shubin. 

*  Nikolai  Artemyevitch  ! '  he  shouted  at  the 
top  of  his  voice,  *  Augustina  Christianovna  is 
here  and  is  asking  for  you  ! ' 

Nikolai  Artemyevitch  turned  round  infuri- 
ated, threatening  Shubin  with  his  fist ;  he  stood 
still  a  minute  and  rapidly  went  out  of  the  room. 

Elena  fell  at  her  mother's  feet  and  embraced 
her  knees. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Uvar  Ivanovitch  was  lying  on  his  bed.  A 
shirt  without  a  collar,  fastened  with  a  heavy  stud 
enfolded  his  thick  neck  and  fell  in  full  flowing 
folds  over  the  almost  feminine  contours  of  his 
chest,  leaving  visible  a  large  cypress-wood 
cross  and  an  amulet.  His  ample  limbs  were 
covered  with  the  lightest  bedclothes.  On  the 
little  table  by  the  bedside  a  candle  was  burning 
dimly  beside  a  jug  of  kvas,  and  on  the  bed  at 
240 


ON   THE   EVE 

Uvar  Ivanovitch's  feet  was  sitting  Shubin  in  a 
dejected  pose. 

*  Yes,'  he  was  saying  meditatively,  '  she  is 
married  and  getting  ready  to  go  away.  Your 
nephew  was  bawling  and  shouting  for  the  benefit 
of  the  whole  house  ;  he  had  shut  himself  up  for 
greater  privacy  in  his  wife's  bedroom,  but  not 
merely  the  maids  and  the  footmen,  the  coach- 
man even  could  hear  it  all!  Now  he's  just 
tearing  and  raving  round  ;  he  all  but  gave  me  a 
thrashing,  he 's  bringing  a  father's  curse  on  the 
scene  now,  as  cross  as  a  bear  with  a  sore  head  ; 
but  that's  of  no  importance.  Anna  Vassil- 
yevna's  crushed,  but  she's  much  more  broken- 
hearted at  her  daughter  leaving  her  than  at  her 
marriage.' 

Uvar  Ivanovitch  flourished  his  fingers. 

*  A  mother,'  he  commented,  '  to  be  sure.' 

*  Your  nephew,'  resumed  Shubin,  *  threatens  to 
lodge  a  complaint  with  the  Metropolitan  and 
the  General-Governor  and  the  Minister,  but  it 
will  end  by  her  going.  A  happy  thought  to  ruin 
his  own  daughter !  He  '11  crow  a  little  and  then 
lower  his  colours.' 

*  They'd  no  right,'  observed  Uvar  Ivano- 
vitch, and  he  drank  out  of  the  jug. 

*  To  be  sure.  But  what  a  storm  of  criticism, 
gossip,  and  comments  will  be  raised  in  Moscow ! 
She's  not   afraid  of  them.  .  .  .  Besides   she's 

241  Q 


ON   THE   EVE 

above  them.  She's  going  away  .  .  .  and  it's 
awful  to  think  where  she 's  going — to  such  a 
distance,  such  a  wilderness !  What  future  awaits 
her  there  ?  I  seem  to  see  her  setting  off  from 
a  posting  station  in  a  snow-storm  with  thirty- 
degrees  of  frost.  She's  leaving  her  country, 
and  her  people ;  but  I  understand  her  doing  it. 
Whom  is  she  leaving  here  behind  her  ?  What 
people  has  she  seen?  Kurnatovsky  and  Ber- 
senyev  and  our  humble  selves ;  and  these  are  the 
best  she 's  seen.  What  is  there  to  regret  about 
it  ?  One  thing 's  bad  ;  I  'm  told  her  husband — 
the  devil,  how  that  word  sticks  in  my  throat ! — 
Insarov,  I  'm  told,  is  spitting  blood  ;  that 's  a 
bad  lookout.  I  saw  him  the  other  day :  his 
face — you  could  model  Brutus  from  it  straight 
off.  Do  you  know  who  Brutus  was,  Uvar 
Ivanovitch?' 

'What  is  there  to  know?  a  man  to  be 
sure.' 

*  Precisely  so  :  he  was  a  "  man."  Yes  he 's  a 
wonderful  face,  but  unhealthy,  very  unhealthy.' 

'  For  fighting  ...  it  makes  no  difference,' 
observed  Uvar  Ivanovitch. 

*  For  fighting  it  makes  no  difference,  cer- 
tainly ;  you  are  pleased  to  express  yourself 
with  great  justice  to-day ;  but  for  living  it 
makes  all  the  difference.  And  you  see  she 
wants  to  live  with  him  a  little  while/ 

242 


ON  THE  EVE 

*A  youthful  affair/  responded  Uvar  Ivano- 
vitch. 

'  Yes,  a  youthful,  glorious,  bold  affair.  Death, 
life,  conflict,  defeat,  triumph,  love,  freedom, 
country.  .  .  .  Good  God,  grant  as  much  to  all 
of  us !  That 's  a  very  different  thing  from 
sitting  up  to  one's  neck  in  a  bog,  and  pretending 
it 's  all  the  same  to  you,  when  in  fact  it  really 
is  all  the  same.  While  there — the  strings  are 
tuned  to  the  highest  pitch,  to  play  to  all  the 
world  or  to  break  ! ' 

Shubin's  head  sank  on  to  his  breast. 

*  Yes,'  he  resumed,  after  a  prolonged  silence, 
*  Insarov  deserves  her.  What  nonsense,  though  ! 
No  one  deserves  her.  .  .  Insarov  .  .  .  Insarov 
.  .  .  What's  the  use  of  pretended  modesty? 
We  '11  own  he 's  a  fine  fellow,  he  stands  on  his 
own  feet,  though  up  to  the  present  he  has  done 
no  more  than  we  poor  sinners ;  and  are  we  suc^^ 
absolutely  worthless  dirt  ?  Am  I  such  dirt, 
Uvar  Ivanovitch  ?  Has  God  been  hard  on  me 
in  every  way  ?  Has  He  given  me  no  talents,  no 
abilities?  Who  knows,  perhaps,  the  name  of 
Pavel  Shubin  will  in  time  be  a  great  name? 
You  see  that  bronze  farthing  there  lying  on 
your  table.  Who  knows ;  some  day,  perhaps 
in  a  century,  that  bronze  will  go  to  a  statue  of 
Pavel  Shubin,  raised  in  his  honour  by  a  grateful 
posterity ! ' 

243 


ON   THE   EVE 

Uvar  Ivanovitch  leaned  on  his  elbow  and 
stared  at  the  enthusiastic  artist. 

*  That 's  a  long  way  off,'  he  said  at  last  with 
his  usual  gesture  ;  *  we  're  speaking  of  other 
people,  why  bring  in  yourself?' 

*  O  great  philosopher  of  the  Russian  world  ! ' 
cried  Shubin,  '  every  word  of  yours  is  worth  its 
weight  in  gold,  and  it 's  not  to  me  but  to  you  a 
statue  ought  to  be  raised,  and  I  would  under- 
take it.  There,  as  you  are  lying  now,  in  that 
pose ;  one  doesn't  know  which  is  uppermost  in 
it,  sloth  or  strength !  That 's  how  I  would  cast 
you  in  bronze.  You  aimed  a  just  reproach 
at  my  egoism  and  vanity  I  Yes  !  yes  !  it 's  use- 
less talking  of  one's-self ;  it 's  useless  bragging. 

.'  We  have  no  one  yet,  no  men,  look  where  you 
will.  Everywhere — either  small  fry,  nibblers, 
Hamlets  on  a  small  scale,  self-absorbed,  or  dark- 
ness and  subterranean  chaos,  or  idle  babblers 
and  wooden  sticks.  Or  else  they  are  like  this : 
they  study  themselves  to  the  most  shameful  de- 
tail, and  are  for  ever  feeling  the  pulse  of  every 
sensation  and  reporting  to  themselves  :  "  That 's 
what  I  feel,  that's  what  I  think."  A  useful, 
rational  occupation  !  No,  if  we  only  had  some 
sensible  men  among  us,  that  girl,  that  delicate 
soul,  would  not  have  run  away  from  us,  would 
not  have  slipped  off  like  a  fish  to  the  water ! 
What's  the  meaning  of  it,  Uvar  Ivanovitch? 

244 


ON  THE  EVE 

When  will  our  time  come  ?     When  will  men  be 
born  among  us  ? ' 

'Give   us  time,'  answered  Uvar  Ivanovitch; 
they  will  be ' 

*  They  will  be  ?  soil  of  our  country !  force 
cf  the  black  earth !  thou  hast  said :  they  will 
be.  Look,  I  will  write  down  your  words.  But 
why  are  you  putting  out  the  candle  ? ' 

*  I  'm  going  to  sleep  ;  good-bye.* 


245 


XXXI 

Shubin  had  spoken  truly.  The  unexpected 
news  of  Elena's  marriage  nearly  killed  Anna 
Vassilyevna.  She  took  to  her  bed.  Nikolai 
Artemyevitch  insisted  on  her  not  admitting  her 
daughter  to  her  presence  ;  he  seemed  to  be  en- 
joying the  opportunity  of  showing  himself  in  the 
fullest  sense  the  master  of  the  house,  with  all 
the  authority  of  the  head  of  the  family ;  he  made 
an  incessant  uproar  in  the  household,  storming 
at  the  servants,  and  constantly  saying :  *  I  will 
show  you  who  I  am,  I  will  let  you  know — you 
wait  a  little  ! '  While  he  was  in  the  house,  Anna 
Vassilyevna  did  not  see  Elena,  and  had  to  be 
content  with  Zoya,  who  waited  on  her  very 
devotedly,  but  kept  thinking  to  herself :  '  Diesen 
Insarof  vorziehen — und  wemf*  But  directly 
Nikolai  Artemyevitch  went  out — and  that 
happened  pretty  often,  Augustina  Chris- 
tianovna  had  come  back  in  sober  earnest — 
Elena  went  to  her  mother,  and  a  long  time 
her  mother  gazed  at  her  in  silence  and  in  tears. 
246 


ON   THE  EVE 

This  dumb  reproach,  more  deeply  than  any 
other,  cut  Elena  to  the  heart ;  at  such  moments 
she  felt,  not  remorse,  but  a  deep,  boundless  pity 
akin  to  remorse. 

'Mamma,  dear  mamma !' she  would  repeat, 
kissing  her  hands  ;  '  what  was  I  to  do  ?  I  'm 
not  to  blame,  I  loved  him,  I  could  not  have 
acted  differently.  Throw  the  blame  on  fate  for 
throwing  me  with  a  man  whom  papa  doesn't 
like,  and  who  is  taking  me  away  from  you.' 

'  Ah  ! '  Anna  Vassilyevna  cut  her  short,  *  don't 
remind  me  of  that.  When  I  think  where  you 
mean  to  go,  my  heart  is  ready  to  burst ! ' 

*  Dear  mamma,'  answered  Elena,  '  be  com- 
forted ;  at  least,  it  might  have  been  worse  ;  I 
might  have  died/ 

*  But,  as  it  is,  I  don't  expect  to  see  you  again. 
Either  you  will  end  your  days  there  in  a  tent 
somewhere' — Anna  Vassilyevna  pictured  Bul- 
garia as  something  after  the  nature  of  the 
Siberian  swamps, — '  or  I  shall  not  survive  the 
separation ' 

*  Don't  say  that,  mamma  dearest,  we  shall  see 
each  other  again,  please  God.  There  are  towns 
in  Bulgaria  just  as  there  are  here.' 

*  Fine  towns  there,  indeed !  There  is  war 
going  on  there  now ;  wherever  you  go,  I  sup- 
pose they  are  firing  cannons  off  all  the  while 
,  .  .  Are  you  meaning  to  set  off  soon  >  * 

347 


ON   THE   EVE 

*  Soon  ...  if  only  papa.  He  means  to  appeal 
to  the  authorities  ;  he  threatens  to  separate  us/ 

Anna  Vassilyevna  turned  her  eyes  heavenwards. 

*  No,  Lenotchka,  he  will  not  do  that.  I  would 
not  myself  have  consented  to  this  marriage.  I 
would  have  died  first ;  but  what 's  done  can't  be 
undone,  and  I  will  not  let  my  daughter  be  dis- 
graced.' 

So  passed  a  few  days.  At  last  Anna  Vassil- 
yevna plucked  up  her  courage,  and  one  evening 
she  shut  herself  up  alone  with  her  husband  in 
her  room.  The  whole  house  was  hushed  to 
catch  every  sound.  At  first  nothing  was  to  be 
heard  ;  then  Nikolai  Artemyevitch's  voice  began 
to  tune  up,  then  a  quarrel  broke  out,  shouts 
were  raised,  even  groans  were  discerned.  .  .  . 
Already  Shubin  was  plotting  with  the  maid? 
and  Zoya  to  rush  in  to  the  rescue ;  but  the  up- 
roar in  the  bedroom  began  by  degrees  to  grow 
less,  passed  into  quiet  talk,  and  ceased.  Only 
from  time  to  time  a  faint  sob  was  to  be  heard, 
and  then  those,  too,  were  still.  There  was  the 
jingling  of  keys,  the  creak  of  a  bureau  being 
unfastened.  .  .  .  The  door  was  opened,  and 
Nikolai  Artemyevitch  appeared.  He  looked 
surlily  at  every  one  who  met  him,  and  went 
out  to  the  club ;  while  Anna  Vassilyevna  sent 
for  Elena,  embraced  her  warmly,  and,  with  bitter 
tears  flowing  down  her  cheeks,  she  said : 
248 


ON   THE  EVE 

'Everything  is  settled,  he  will  not  make  a 
scandal,  and  there  is  nothing  now  to  hinder  you 
from  going — from  abandoning  us/ 

'You  will  let  Dmitri  come  to  thank  you?' 
Elena  begged  her  mother,  as  soon  as  the  latter 
had  been  restored  a  little. 

'  Wait  a  little,  my  darling,  I  cannot  bear  yet 
to  see  the  man  who  has  come  between  us.  We 
shall  have  time  before  you  go.' 

*  Before  we  go,'  repeated  Elena  mournfully. 

Nikolai  Artemyevitch  had  consented  '  not  to 
make  a  scandal,'  but  Anna  Vassilyevna  did  not 
tell  her  daughter  what  a  price  he  had  put  on  his 
consent.  She  did  not  tell  her  that  she  had 
promised  to  pay  all  his  debts,  and  had  given 
him  a  thousand  roubles  down  on  the  spot.  More- 
over, he  had  declared  decisively  to  Anna  Vassil- 
yevna that  he  had  no  wish  to  meet  Insarov,whom 
he  persisted  in  calling  '  the  Montenegrin  vagrant,' 
and  when  he  got  to  the  club,  he  began,  quite 
without  occasion,  talking  of  Elena's  marriage,  to 
his  partner  at  cards,  a  retired  general  of  en- 
gineers. '  You  have  heard,'  he  observed  with  a 
show  of  carelessness,  *  my  daughter,  through  the 
higher  education,  has  gone  and  married  a 
student.'  The  general  looked  at  him  through 
his  spectacles,  muttered,  *H'm!'  and  asked 
him  what  stakes  would  he  play  for. 


249 


XXXIl 

The  day  of  departure  drew  near.  November 
was  already  over ;  the  latest  date  for  starting 
had  come.  Insarov  had  long  ago  made  his  pre- 
parations, and  was  burning  with  anxiety  to  get 
out  of  Moscow  as  soon  as  possible.  And  the 
doctor  was  urging  him  on.  '  You  need  a  warm 
climate/  he  told  him ;  *  you  will  not  get  well 
here.'  Elena,  too,  was  fretting  with  impatience ; 
she  was  worried  by  Insarov's  pallor,  and  his 
emaciation.  She  often  looked  with  involuntary 
terror  at  his  changed  face.  Her  position  in  her 
parents'  house  had  become  insupportable.  Her 
mother  mourned  over  her,  as  over  the  dead, 
while  her  father  treated  her  with  contemptuous 
coldness ;  the  approaching  separation  secretly 
pained  him  too,  but  he  regarded  it  as  his  duty 
— the  duty  of  an  offended  father — to  disguise 
his  feelings,  his  weakness.  Anna  Vassilyevna 
at  last  expressed  a  wish  to  see  Insarov.  He 
was  taken  up  to  her  secretly  by  the  back  stairs. 
After  he  had  entered  her  room,  for  a  long 
230 


ON    THE   EVE 

time  she  could  not  speak  to  him,  she  could 
not  even  bring  herself  to  look  at  him  ;  he  sat 
down  near  her  chair,  and  waited,  with  quiet 
respectfulness,  for  her  first  word.  Elena  sat 
down  close,  and  held  her  mother's  hand  in 
hers.  At  last  Anna  Vassilyevna  raised  her 
eyes,  saying :  *  God  is  your  judge,  Dmitri 
Nikanorovitch ' — she  stopped  short :  the  re- 
proaches died  away  on  her  lips.  *  Why,  you 
are  ill,'  she  cried  :  '  Elena,  your  husband 's  ill !' 

*  I  have  been  unwell,  Anna  Vassilyevna,' 
answered  Insarov ;  *  and  even  now  I  am  not 
quite  strong  yet :  but  I  hope  my  native  air  will 
make  me  perfectly  well  again.' 

*Ah  —  Bulgaria!'  murmured  Anna  Vassil- 
yevna, and  she  thought:  'Good  God,  a  Bulgarian, 
and  dying ;  a  voice  as  hollow  as  a  drum ;  and 
eyes  like  saucers,  a  perfect  skeleton  ;  his  coat 
hanging  loose  on  his  shoulders,  his  face  as  yellow 
as   a   gumea,   and    she's   his   wife — she   loves 

him — it  must  be  a  bad  dream.     But '  she 

checked  herself  at  once:  'Dmitri  Nikanorovitch,' 
she  said,  *  are  you  absolutely,  absolutely  bound 
to  go  away?' 

*  Absolutely,  Anna  Vassilyevna.' 
Anna  Vassilyevna  looked  at  him. 

*Ah,  Dmitri  Nikanorovitch,  God   grant  you 
never   have  to   go  through  what   I  am   going 
through  now.     But  you  will  promise  me  to  take 
251 


ON    THE   EVE    - 

care  of  her — to  love  her.  You  will  not  have  to 
face  poverty  while  I  am  living !' 

Tears  choked  her  voice.  She  opened  her 
arms,  and  Elena  and  Insarov  flung  themselves 
into  her  embrace. 

The  fatal  day  had  come  at  last.  It  had  been 
arranged  that  Elena  should  say  good-bye  to 
her  parents  at  home,  and  should  start  on  the 
journey  from  Insarov's  lodgings.  The  departure 
was  fixed  for  twelve  o'clock.  About  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  before  the  appointed  time  Bersenyev 
arrived.  He  had  expected  to  find  Insarov 's 
compatriots  at  his  lodgings,  anxious  to  see  him 
off ;  but  they  had  already  gone  before  ;  and 
with  them  the  two  mysterious  persons  known 
to  the  reader  (they  had  been  witnesses  at 
Insarov's  wedding).  The  tailor  met  the  '  kind 
gentlemen '  with  a  bow ;  he,  presumably,  to 
drown  his  grief,  but  possibly  to  celebrate  his 
delight  at  getting  the  furniture,  had  been  drink- 
ing heavily ;  his  wife  soon  led  him  away.  In 
the  room  everything  was  by  this  time  ready  ;  a 
trunk,  tied  up  with  cord,  stood  on  the  floor. 
Bersenyev  sank  into  thought :  many  memories 
came  rushing  upon  him. 

Twelve  o'clock  had  long  ago  struck  ;  and  the 
driver  had  already  brought  round  the  horses, 
but  the  'young  people'  still  did  not  appear. 
At  last  hurrying  steps  were  heard  on  the  stairs, 


ON    THE   EVE 

and  Elena  came  out  escorted  by  Insarov  and 
Shubin.  Elena's  eyes  were  red  ;  she  had  left 
her  mother  lying  unconscious ;  the  parting  had 
been  terrible.  Elena  had  not  seen  Bersenyev 
for  more  than  a  week :  he  had  been  seldom  of 
late  at  the  Stahovs'.  She  had  not  expected  to 
meet  him  ;  and  crying,  'You  !  thank  you  !'  she 
threw  herself  on  his  neck ;  Insarov,  too,  em- 
braced him.  A  painful  silence  followed.  What 
could  these  three  say  to  one  another?  what 
were  they  feeling  in  their  hearts?  Shubin 
realised  the  necessity  of  cutting  short  every- 
thing painful  with  light  words. 

'  Our  trio  has  come  together  again,'  he  began, 
'for  the  last  time.  Let  us  submit  to  the 
decrees  of  fate ;  speak  of  the  past  with  kind- 
ness ;  and  in  God's  name  go  forward  to  the 
new  life  !  In  God's  name,  on  our  distant  way,* 
he  began  to  hum,  and  stopped  short.  He  felt 
suddenly  ashamed  and  awkward.  It  is  a  sin  to 
sing  where  the  dead  are  lying:  and  at  that 
instant,  in  that  room,  the  past  of  which  he 
had  spoken  was  dying,  the  past  of  the  people 
met  together  in  it  It  was  dying  to  be  born 
again  in  a  new  life — doubtless — still  it  was 
death. 

*  Come,  Elena,'  began  Insarov,  turning  to  his 
wife,  *  I  think  everything  is  done  ?  Everything 
paid,  and  everything  packed.  There 's  nothing 
353 


ON   THE   EVE 

more  except  to  take  the  box  down/  He  called 
his  landlord. 

The  tailor  came  into  the  room,  together  with 
his  wife  and  daughter.  He  listened,  slightly- 
reeling,  to  Insarov's  instructions,  dragged  the 
box  up  on  to  his  shoulders,  and  ran  quickly 
down  the  staircases,  tramping  heavily  with  his 
boots. 

*  Now,  after  the  Russian  custom,  we  must  sit 
down,'  observed  Insarov. 

They  all  sat  down  ;  Bersenyev  seated  himself 
on  the  old  sofa,  Elena  sat  next  him  ;  the  land- 
lady and  her  daughter  squatted  in  the  doorway. 
All  were  silent ;  all  smiled  constrainedly,  though 
no  one  knew  why  he  was  smiling  ;  each  of  them 
wanted  to  say  something  at  parting,  and  each 
(except,  of  course, the  landlady  and  her  daughter, 
they  were  simply  rolling  their  eyes)  felt  that  at 
such  moments  it  is  only  permissible  to  utter 
common-places,  that  any  word  of  importance,  of 
sense,  or  even  of  deep  feeling,  would  be  some- 
how out  of  place,  almost  insincere.  Insarov 
was  the  first  to  get  up,  and  he  began  crossing 
himself.     *  Farewell,  our  little  room  !'  he  cried. 

Then  came  kisses,  the  sounding  but  cold 
kisses  of  leave-taking,  good  wishes — half  ex- 
pressed— for  the  journey,  promises  to  write,  the 
last,  half-smothered  words  of  farewell. 

Elena,  all  in  tears,  had  already  taken  her  seat 
254 


ON  THE  EVE 

in  the  sledge ;  Insarov  had  carefully  wrapped 
her  feet  up  in  a  rug ;  Shubin,  Bersenyev,  the 
landlord,  his  wife,  the  little  daughter,  with  the 
inevitable  kerchief  on  her  head,  the  doorkeeper,  a 
workman  in  a  striped  bedgown,  were  all  standing 
on  the  steps,  when  suddenly  a  splendid  sledge, 
harnessed  with  spirited  horses,  flew  into  the 
courtyard,  and  from  the  sledge,  shaking  the 
snow  off  the  collar  of  his  cloak,  leapt  Nikolai 
Artemyevitch. 

*  I  am  not  too  late,  thank  God,'  he  cried, 
running  up  to  their  sledge.  *  Here,  Elena,  is 
our  last  parental  benediction,'  he  said,  bending 
down  under  the  hood,  and  taking  from  his 
pocket  a  little  holy  image,  sewn  in  a  velvet  bag, 
he  put  it  round  her  neck.  She  began  to  sob, 
and  kiss  his  hands ;  and  the  coachman  mean- 
time pulled  out  of  the  forepart  of  the  sledge  a 
half  bottle  of  champagne,  and  three  glasses. 

'Come!'  said  Nikolai  Artemyevitch — and  his 
own  tears  were  trickling  on  to  the  beaver  collar 
of  his  cloak — '  we  must  drink  to — good  journey 

— good  wishes '     He  began  pouring  out  the 

champagne :  his  hands  were  shaking,  the  foam 
rose  over  the  edge  and  fell  on  to  the  snow.  He 
took  one  glass,  and  gave  the  other  two  to  Elena 
and  Insarov,  who  by  now  was  seated  beside  her. 

*  God  give  you '  began  Nikolai  Artemyevitch, 

and  he  could  not  go  on  ;  he  drank  off  the  wine 
2SS 


ON   THE  EVE 

they,  too,  drank  off  their  glasses.  *  Now  you 
should  drink,  gentlemen,'  he  added,  turning  to 
Shubin  and  Bersenyev,  but  at  that  instant  the 
driver  started  the  horses.  Nikolai  Artemye- 
vitch  ran  beside  the  sledge.  '  Mind  and  write 
to  us,'  he  said  in  a  broken  voice.  Elena  put 
out  her  head,  saying  :  *  Good-bye,  papa,  Andrei 
Petrovitch,  Pavel  Yakovlitch,  good-bye  all, 
good-bye,  Russia!'  and  dropped  back  in  her 
place.  The  driver  flourished  his  whip,  and  gave 
a  whistle ;  the  sledge,  its  runners  crunching  on 
the  snow,  turned  out  of  the  gates  to  the  right 
and  disappeared. 


9^ 


XXXIII 

It  was  a  bright  April  day.  On  the  broad 
lagoon  which  separates  Venice  from  the  narrow 
strip  of  accumulated  sea  sand,  called  the  Lido,  a 
gondola  was  gliding — swaying  rhythmically  at 
every  push  made  by  the  gondolier  as  he  leaned 
on  the  big  pole.  Under  its  low  awning,  on 
soft  leather  cushions,  were  sitting  Elena  and 
Insarov. 

Elena's  features  had  not  changed  much  since 
the  day  of  her  departure  from  Moscow,  but 
their  expression  was  different ;  it  was  more 
thoughtful  and  more  severe,  and  her  eyes  had  a 
bolder  look.  Her  whole  figure  had  grown  finer 
and  more  mature,  and  the  hair  seemed  to  lie 
in  greater  thickness  and  luxuriance  along  her 
white  brow  and  her  fresh  cheeks.  Only  about 
her  lips,  when  she  was  not  smiling,  a  scarcely 
perceptible  line  showed  the  presence  of  a 
hidden  constant  anxiety.  In  Insarov's  face, 
on  the  contrary,  the  expression  had  remained  the 
same,  but  his  features  had  undergone  a  cruel 
257  R 


ON   THE  EVE 

change.  He  had  grown  thin,  old,  pale  and 
bent ;  he  was  constantly  coughing  a  short  dry- 
cough,  and  his  sunken  eyes  shone  with  a 
strange  brilliance.  On  the  way  from  Russia, 
Insarov  had  lain  ill  for  almost  two  months  at 
Vienna,  and  only  at  the  end  of  March  had  he 
been  able  to  come  with  his  wife  to  Venice; 
from  there  he  was  hoping  to  make  his  way 
through  Zara  to  Servia,  to  Bulgaria ;  the 
other  roads  were  closed.  The  war  was  now  at 
its  height  about  the  Danube ;  England  and 
France  had  declared  war  on  Russia,  all  the 
Slavonic  countries  were  roused  and  were  pre- 
paring for  an  uprising. 

The  gondola  put  in  to  the  inner  shore  of  the 
Lido.  Elena  and  Insarov  walked  along  the 
narrow  sandy  road  planted  with  sickly  trees 
(every  year  they  plant  them  and  every  year  they 
die)  to  the  outer  shore  of  the  Lido,  to  the  sea. 

They  walked  along  the  beach.  The  Adriatic 
rolled  its  muddy-blue  waves  before  them ; 
they  raced  into  the  shore,  foaming  and  hissing, 
and  drew  back  again,  leaving  fine  shells  and 
fragments  of  seaweed  on  the  beach. 

*  What  a  desolate  place ! '  observed  Elena 
*  I  'm  afraid  it 's  too  cold  for  you  here,  but  I 
guess  why  you  wanted  to  come  here/ 

*  Cold  ! '  rejoined  Insarov  with  a  rapid  and 
bitter  smile,  *  I  shall  be  a  fine  soldier,  if  I  'm  to 

3S8 


ON  THE  EVB 

be  afraid  of  the  cold.  I  came  here  .  .  ,  I  will 
tell  you  why.  I  look  across  that  sea,  and 
I  feel  as  though  here,  I  am  nearer  my  country. 
It  is  there,  you  know,'  he  added,  stretching  out 
his  hand  to  the  East,  *  the  wind  blows  from 
there.' 

*  Will  not  this  wind  bring  the  ship  you  are 
expecting  ? '  said  Elena,  *  See,  there  is  a  white 
sail,  is  not  that  it  ? ' 

Insarov  gazed  seaward  into  the  distance  to 
where  Elena  was  pointing. 

*  Renditch  promised  to  arrange  everything 
for  us  within  a  week,'  he  said,  *  we  can  rely  on 
him,  I  think.  .  .  .  Did  you  hear,  Elena,'  he 
added  with  sudden  animation,  'they  say  the 
poor  Dalmatian  fishermen  have  sacrificed  their 
dredging  weights — you  know  the  leads  they 
weigh  their  nets  with  for  letting  them  down 
to  the  bottom — to  make  bullets  !  They  have 
no  money,  they  only  just  live  by  fish- 
ing ;  but  they  have  joyfully  given  up  their 
last  property,  and  now  are  starving.  What  a 
nation  ! 

^ Aufgepasst !  *  shouted  a  haughty  voice  be- 
hind them.  The  heavy  thud  of  horse's  hoofs  was 
heard,  and  an  Austrian  officer  in  a  short  grey 
tunic  and  a  green  cap  galloped  past  them — 
they  had  scarcely  time  to  get  out  of  the  way. 

Insarov  looked  darkly  after  him. 
259 


ON   THE  EVE 

*He  was  not  to  blame/  said  Elena,  *you 
know,  they  have  no  other  place  where  they  can 
ride/ 

*  He  was  not  to  blame,'  answered  Insarov 
*but  he  made  my  blood  boil  with  his  shout, 
his  moustaches,  his  cap,  his  whole  appearance. 
Let  us  go  back.' 

*  Yes,  let  us  go  back,  Dmitri.  It 's  really 
cold  here.  You  did  not  take  care  of  yourself 
after  your  Moscow  illness,  and  you  had  to  pay 
for  that  at  Vienna.  Now  you  must  be  more 
cautious.' 

Insarov  did  not  answer,  but  the  same  bitter 
smile  passed  over  his  lips. 

'  If  you  like,'  Elena  went  on,  '  we  will  go 
along  to  the  Canal  Grande.  We  have  not  seen 
Venice  properly,  you  know,  all  the  while  we 
have  been  here.  And  in  the  evening  we  are 
going  to  the  theatre ;  I  have  two  tickets  for  the 
stalls.  They  say  there's  a  new  opera  being 
given.  If  you  like,  we  will  give  up  to-day  to 
one  another;  we  will  forget  politics  and  war 
and  everything,  we  will  forget  everything  but 
that  we  are  alive,  breathing,  thinking  together ; 
that  we  are  one  for  ever — would  you  like  that?* 

*  If  you  would  like  it,  Elena,'  answered 
Insarov,  *  it  follows  that  I  should  like  it  too.' 

*  I  knew  that,'  observed  Elena  with  a  smile, 
come,  let  us  go.' 

260 


ON   THE   EVE 

They  went  back  to  the  gondola,  took  their 
seats,  told  the  gondolier  to  take  them  without 
hurry  along  the  Canal  Grande. 

No  one  who  has  not  seen  Venice  in  April 
knows  all  the  unutterable  fascinations  of  that 
magic  town.  The  softness  and  mildness  of 
spring  harmonise  with  Venice,  just  as  the  glar- 
ing sun  of  summer  suits  the  magnificence  of 
Genoa,  and  as  the  gold  and  purple  of  autumn 
suits  the  grand  antiquity  of  Rome.  The  beauty 
of  Venice,  like  the  spring,  touches  the  soul 
and  moves  it  to  desire  ;  it  frets  and  tortures 
the  inexperienced  heart  like  the  promise 
of  a  coming  bliss,  mysterious  but  not  elusive. 
Everything  in  it  is  bright,  and  everything  is 
wrapt  in  a  drowsy,  tangible  mist,  as  it  were, 
of  the  hush  of  love  ;  everything  in  it  is  so 
silent,  and  everything  in  it  is  kindly ;  every- 
thing in  it  is  feminine,  from  its  name  up- 
wards. It  has  well  been  given  the  name  of 
*the  fair  city.'  Its  masses  of  palaces  and 
churches  stand  out  light  and  wonderful  like 
the  graceful  dream  of  a  young  god ;  there 
is  something  magical,  something  strange  and 
bewitching  in  the  greenish-grey  light  and 
silken  shimmer  of  the  silent  water  of  the 
canals,  in  the  noiseless  gliding  of  the  gon- 
dolas, in  the  absence  of  the  coarse  din  of  a 
town,  the  coarse  rattling,  and  crashing,  and  up- 
261 


ON   THE  EVE 

roar.  *  Venice  is  dead,  Venice  is  deserted/  her 
citizens  will  tell  you,  but  perhaps  this  last  charm 
— the  charm  of  decay — was  not  vouchsafed  her 
in  the  very  heyday  of  the  flower  and  majesty 
of  her  beauty.  He  who  has  not  seen  her, 
knows  her  not ;  neither  Canaletto  nor  Guardi 
(to  say  nothing  of  later  painters)  has  been 
able  to  convey  the  silvery  tenderness  of  the 
atmosphere,  the  horizon  so  close,  yet  so  elusive, 
the  divine  harmony  of  exquisite  lines  and 
melting  colours.  One  who  has  outlived  his 
life,  who  has  been  crushed  by  it,  should  not 
visit  Venice  ;  she  will  be  cruel  to  him  as  the 
memory  of  unfulfilled  dreams  of  early  days ; 
but  sweet  to  one  whose  strength  is  at  its  full, 
who  is  conscious  of  happiness ;  let  him 
bring  his  bliss  under  her  enchanted  skies ; 
and  however  bright  it  may  be,  Venice  will 
make  it  more  golden  with  her  unfading 
splendour. 

The  gondola  in  which  Insarov  and  Elena 
were  sitting  passed  Riva  dei  Schiavoni^  the 
palace  of  the  Doges,  and  Piazzetta,  and  entered 
the  Grand  Canal.  On  both  sides  stretched 
marble  palaces  ;  they  seemed  to  float  softly  by, 
scarcely  letting  the  eye  seize  or  absorb  their 
beauty.  Elena  felt  herself  deeply  happy;  in 
the  perfect  blue  of  her  heavens  there  was  only 
one  dark  cloud — and  it  was  in  the  far  distance ; 
262 


ON   THE  EVE 

Insarov  was  much  better  that  day.  They 
glided  as  far  as  the  acute  angle  of  the  Rialto 
and  turned  back.  Elena  was  afraid  of  the 
chill  of  the  churches  for  Insarov ;  but  she 
remembered  the  academy  delle  Belle  Arti^  and 
told  the  gondolier  to  go  towards  it.  They 
quickly  walked  through  all  the  rooms  of  that 
little  museum.  Being  neither  connoisseurs 
nor  dilettantes,  they  did  not  stop  before  every 
picture  ;  they  put  no  constraint  on  themselves  ; 
a  spirit  of  light-hearted  gaiety  came  over  them. 
Everything  seemed  suddenly  very  entertaining. 
(Children  know  this  feeling  very  well.)  To  the 
great  scandal  of  three  English  visitors,  Elena 
laughed  till  she  cried  over  the  St  Mark  of  Tin- 
toretto, skipping  down  from  the  sky  like  a  frog 
into  the  water,  to  deliver  the  tortured  slave ; 
Insarov  in  his  turn  fell  into  raptures  over  the 
back  and  legs  of  the  sturdy  man  in  the  green 
cloak,  who  stands  in  the  foreground  of  Titian's 
Ascension  and  holds  his  arms  outstretched  after 
the  Madonna;  but  the  Madonna — a  splendid, 
powerful  woman,  calmly  and  majestically 
making  her  way  towards  the  bosom  of  God  the 
Father — impressed  both  Insarov  and  Elena ; 
they  liked,  too,  the  austere  and  reverent  paint- 
ing of  the  elder  Cima  da  Conegliano.  As  they 
were  leaving  the  academy,  they  took  another 
look  at  the  Englishmen  behind  them — with  their 
263 


ON  THE  EVE 

long  rabbit-like  teeth  and  drooping  whiskers — 
and  laughed ;  they  glanced  at  their  gondolier 
with  his  abbreviated  jacket  and  short  breeches 
— and  laughed  ;  they  caught  sight  of  a  woman 
selling  old  clothes  with  a  knob  of  grey  hair  on 
the  very  top  of  her  head — and  laughed  more 
than  ever ;  they  looked  into  one  another's  face — 
and  went  off  into  peals  of  laughter,  and  directly 
they  had  sat  down  in  the  gondola,  they  clasped 
each  other's  hand  in  a  close,  close  grip.  They 
reached  their  hotel,  ran  into  their  room,  and 
ordered  dinner  to  be  brought  in.  Their  gaiety 
did  not  desert  them  at  dinner.  They  pressed 
each  other  to  eat,  drank  to  the  health  of  their 
friends  in  Moscow,  clapped  their  hands  at  the 
waiter  for  a  delicious  dish  of  fish,  and  kept 
asking  him  for  live  frutti  di  mare ;  the  waiter 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  scraped  with  his 
feet,  but  when  he  had  left  them,  he  shook  his 
head  and  once  even  muttered  with  a  sigh, 
poveretti!  (poor  things!)  After  dinner  they 
set  off  for  the  theatre. 

They  were  giving  an  opera  of  Verdi's,  which 
though,  honestly  speaking,  rather  vulgar,  has 
already  succeeded  in  making  the  round  of  all 
the  European  theatres,  an  opera,  well-known 
among  Russians,  La  Traviata.  The  season  in 
Venice  was  over,  and  none  of  the  singers  rose 
above  the  level  of  mediocrity;  every  one 
264 


ON  THE  EVE 

shouted  to  the  best  of  their  abilities.  The 
part  of  Violetta  was  performed  by  an  artist, 
of  no  renown,  and  judging  by  the  cool  recep- 
tion given  her  by  the  public,  not  a  favourite,  but 
she  was  not  destitute  of  talent.  She  was  a 
young,  and  not  very  pretty,  black-eyed  girl 
with  an  unequal  and  already  overstrained  voice. 
Her  dress  was  ill-chosen  and  naively  gaudy ; 
her  hair  was  hidden  in  a  red  net,  her  dress  of 
faded  blue  satin  was  too  tight  for  her,  and 
thick  Swedish  gloves  reached  up  to  her 
sharp  elbows.  Indeed,  how  could  she,  the 
daughter  of  some  Bergamese  shepherd,  know 
how  Parisian  dames  aux  cam£ias  dress !  And 
she  did  not  understand  how  to  move  on  the 
stage ;  but  there  was  much  truth  and  artless 
simplicity  in  her  acting,  and  she  sang  with  that 
passion  of  expression  and  rhythm  which  is  only 
vouchsafed  to  Italians.  Elena  and  Insarov 
were  sitting  alone  together  in  a  dark  box 
close  to  the  stage  ;  the  mirthful  mood  which 
had  come  upon  them  in  the  academy  delle 
Belle  Arti  had  not  yet  passed  off.  When  the 
father  of  the  unhappy  young  man  who  had 
fallen  into  the  snares  of  the  enchantress  came 
on  to  the  stage  in  a  yellow  frock-coat  and  a 
dishevelled  white  wig,  opened  his  mouth  awry, 
and  losing  his  presence  of  mind  before  he  had 
begun,  only  brought  out  a  faint  bass  tremolo^ 
265 


ON  THE  EVE 

they  almost  burst  into  laughter.  ,  .  .  But  Vio- 
letta's  acting  impressed  them. 

*  They  hardly  clap  that  poor  girl  at  all/  said 
Elena, '  but  I  like  her  a  thousand  times  better 
than  some  conceited  second-rate  celebrity  who 
would  grimace  and  attitudinise  all  the  while  for 
effect.  This  girl  seems  as  though  it  were  all  in 
earnest;  look,  she  pays  no  attention  to  the 
public' 

Insarov  bent  over  the  edge  of  the  box,  and 
looked  attentively  at  Violetta. 

*  Yes,'  he  commented,  *  she  is  in  earnest ; 
she's  on  the  brink  of  the  grave  herself.' 

Elena  was  mute. 

The  third  act  began.  The  curtain  rose- 
Elena  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  the  bed,  the 
drawn  curtains,  the  glass  of  medicine,  the 
shaded  lamps.  She  recalled  the  near  past. 
*What  of  the  future?  What  of  the  present?' 
flashed  across  her  mind.  As  though  in  re- 
sponse to  her  thought,  the  artist's  mimic 
cough  on  the  stage  was  answered  in  the  box 
by  the  hoarse,  terribly  real  cough  of  Insarov. 
Elena  stole  a  glance  at  him,  and  at  once  gave 
her  features  a  calm  and  untroubled  expression  ; 
Insarov  understood  her,  and  he  began  himself 
to  smile,  and  softly  to  hum  the  tune  of  the 
song. 

But  he  was   soon   quiet     Violetta's   acting 
266 


6  ^ 


ON   THE  EVE 

became  steadily  better,  and  freer.  She  had 
thrown  aside  everything  subsidiary,  everything 
superfluous,  and  found  herself ;  a  rare,  a  lofty 
delight  for  an  artist!  She  had  suddenly 
crossed  the  limit,  which  it  is  impossible  to 
define,  beyond  which  is  the  abiding  place  of 
beauty.  The  audience  was  thrilled  and  aston- 
ished. The  plain  girl  with  the  broken  voice 
began  to  get  a  hold  on  it,  to  master  it  And 
the  singer's  voice  even  did  not  sound  broken 
now;  it  had  gained  mellowness  and  strength 
Alfredo  made  his  entrance ;  Violetta's  cry  of  V<^f^ 
happiness  almost  raised  that  storm  in  the 
audience  known  as  fanatismo^  beside  which 
all  the  applause  of  our  northern  audiences  is 
nothing.  A  brief  interval  passed — and  again 
the  audience  were  in  transports.  The  duet 
began,  the  best  thing  in  the  opera,  in  which  the 
composer  has  succeeded  in  expressing  all  the 
pathos  of  the  senseless  waste  of  youth,  the  final 
struggle  of  despairing,  helpless  love.  Caught 
up  and  carried  along  by  the  general  sympathy, 
with  tears  of  artistic  delight  and  real  suffering 
in  her  eyes,  the  singer  let  herself  be  borne 
along  on  the  wave  of  passion  within  her ;  her 
face  was  transfigured,  and  in  the  presence  of 
the  threatening  signs  of  fast  approaching  death, 
the  words  :  *  Lascia  mi  vivero — morir  si  gio- 
vane '  (let  me  live — to  die  so  young !)  burst 
267 


ON   THE   EVE 

from  her  in  such  a  tempest  of  prayer  rising  to 
heaven,  that  the  whole  theatre  shook  with 
frenzied  applause  and  shouts  of  delight. 

Elena  felt  cold  all  over.  Softly  her  hand 
sought  Insarov's,  found  it,  and  clasped  it 
tightly.  He  responded  to  its  pressure ;  but 
she  did  not  look  at  him,  nor  he  at  her.  Very 
different  was  the  clasp  of  hands  with  which  they 
had  greeted  each  other  in  the  gondola  a  few 
hours  before. 

Again  they  glided  along  the  Canal  Grande 
towards  their  hotel.  Night  had  set  in  now,  a 
clear,  soft  night.  The  same  palaces  met  them, 
but  they  seemed  different.  Those  that  were 
lighted  up  by  the  moon  shone  with  pale  gold, 
and  in  this  pale  light  all  details  of  ornaments 
and  lines  of  windows  and  balconies  seemed  lost ; 
they  stood  out  more  clearly  in  the  buildings 
that  were  wrapped  in  a  light  veil  of  unbroken 
shadow.  The  gondolas,  with  their  little  red 
lamps,  seemed  to  flit  past  more  noiselessly  and 
swiftly  than  ever ;  their  steel  beaks  flashed 
mysteriously,  mysteriously  their  oars  rose  and 
fell  over  the  ripples  stirred  by  little  silvery  fish  ; 
here  and  there  was  heard  the  brief,  subdued  call 
of  a  gondolier  (they  never  sing  now)  ;  scarcely 
another  sound  was  to  be  heard.  The  hotel 
where  Insarov  and  Elena  were  staying  was  on 
the  Riva  dei  Schiavoni ;  before  they  reached  it 
268 


ON  THE  EVE 

they  left  the  gondola,  and  walked  several  times 
round  the  Square  of  St.  Mark,  under  the  arches, 
where  numbers  of  holiday  makers  were  gathered 
before  the  tiny  cafes.  ^  There  is  a  special  sweet- 
ness in  wandering  alone  with  one  you  love,  in 
a  strange  city  among  strangers  •)  everything 
seems  beautiful  and  full  of  meaning,  you  feel 
peace  and  goodwill  to  all  men,  you  wish  all  the 
same  happiness  that  fills  your  heart.  But  Elena 
could  not  now  give  herself  up  without  a  care  to 
the  sense  of  her  happiness  ;  her  heart  could  not 
regain  its  calm  after  the  emotions  that  had  so 
lately  shaken  it ;  and  Insarov,  as  he  walked 
by  the  palace  of  the  Doges,  pointed  without 
speaking  to  the  mouths  of  the  Austrian  can- 
nons, peeping  out  from  the  lower  arches,  and 
pulled  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes.  By  now  he 
felt  tired,  and,  with  a  last  glance  at  the  church 
of  St.  Mark,  at  its  cupola,  where  on  the  bluish 
lead  bright  patches  of  phosphorescent  light 
shone  in  the  rays  of  the  moon,  they  turned 
slowly  homewards. 

Their  little  room  looked  out  on  to  the  lagoon, 
which  stretches  from  the  Riva  dei  Schiavoni  to 
the  Giudecca.  Almost  facing  their  hotel  rose  the 
slender  tower  of  S.  George  ;  high  against  the  sky 
on  therightshone  the  golden  ball  of  the  Customs 
House  ;  and,  decked  like  a  bride,  stood  the  love- 
liest of  the  churches,  the  Redentore  of  Palladio ; 
269 


ON  THE  EVE 

on  the  left  were  the  black  masts  and  rigging  of 
ships,  the  funnels  of  steamers  ;  a  half-furled  sail 
hung  in  one  place  like  a  great  wing,  and  the 
flags  scarcely  stirred.  Insarov  sat  down  at  the 
window,  but  Elena  did  not  let  him  admire  the 
view  for  long  ;  he  seemed  suddenly  feverish,  he 
was  overcome  by  consuming  weakness.  She 
put  him  to  bed,  and,  waiting  till  he  had  fallen 
asleep,  she  returned  to  the  window.  Oh,  how 
still  and  kindly  was  the  night,  what  dovelike 
softness  breathed  in  the  deep-blue  air  !  Every 
suffering,  every  sorrow  surely  must  be  soothed 
to  slumber  under  that  clear  sky,  under  that 
pure,  holy  light!  *0  God,'  thought  Elena, 
'  why  must  there  be  death,  why  is  there  separa- 
tion, and  disease  and  tears  ?  or  else,  why  this 
beauty,  this  sweet  feeling  of  hope,  this  soothing 
sense  of  an  abiding  refuge,  an  unchanging  sup- 
port, an  everlasting  protection  ?  What  is  the 
meaning  of  this  smiling,  blessing  sky ;  this 
happy,  sleeping  earth  ?  Can  it  be  that  all  that 
is  only  in  us,  and  that  outside  us  is  eternal 
cold  and  silence  ?  Can  it  be  that  we  are  alone 
.  .  .  alone  .  .  .  and  there,  on  all  sides,  in  all 
those  unattainable  depths  and  abysses — nothing 
is  akin  to  us  ;  all,  all  is  strange  and  apart  from 
us?  Why,  then,  have  we  this  desire  for,  this 
delight  in  prayer  ? '  (Morir  si  giovane  was 
echoing  in  her  heart.)  ...  *  Is  it  impossible, 
270 


ON  THE  EVE 

then,  to  propitiate,  to  avert,  to  save  .  .  ,  O 
God !  is  it  impossible  to  believe  in  miracle  ?  * 
She  dropped  her  head  on  to  her  clasped  hands. 

*  Enough,'  she  whispered.  *  Indeed  enough  ! 
I  have  been  happy  not  for  moments  only, 
not  for  hours,  not  for  whole  days  even, 
but  for  whole  weeks  together.  And  what 
right  had  I  to  happiness  .'* '  She  felt  terror 
at  the  thought  of  her  happiness.  *What,  if 
that  cannot  be  ? '  she  thought.  *  What,  if  it 
is  not  granted  for  nothing?  Why,  it  has 
been  heaven  .  .  .  and  we  are  mortals,  poor 
sinful  mortals.  .  .  .  Morir  si  giovane.  Oh, 
dark  omen,  away !  It 's  not  only  for  me  his 
life  is  needed ! 

*  But  what,  if  it  is  a  punishment,'  she  thought 
again  ;  *  what,  if  we  must  now  pay  the  penalty 
of  our  guilt  in  full?  My  conscience  was 
silent,  it  is  silent  now,  but  is  that  a  proof  of 
innocence  ?  O  God,  can  we  be  so  guilty ! 
Canst  Thou  who  hast  created  this  night,  this 
sky,  wish  to  punish  us  for  having  loved  each 
other?  If  it  be  so,  if  he  has  sinned,  if  I  have 
sinned,'    she    added    with    involuntary    force, 

*  grant  that  he,  O  God,  grant  that  we  both, 
may  die  at  least  a  noble,  glorious  death — there, 
on  the  plains  of  his  country,  not  here  in  this 
dark  room. 

*  And  the  grief  of  my  poor,  lonely  mother  ?  * 

271 


ON  THE  EVE 

she  asked  herself,  and  was  bewildered,  and 
could  find  no  answer  to  her  question.  Elena 
did  not  know  that  every  man's  happiness  is 
built  on  the  unhappiness  of  another,  that  even 
his  advantage,  his  comfort,  like  a  statue  needs 
a  pedestal,  the  disadvantage,  the  discomfort  of 
others. 

*  Renditch  ! '  muttered  Insarov  in  his  sleep. 

Elena  went  up  to  him  on  tiptoe,  bent  over 
him,  and  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  face. 
He  tossed  a  little  on  his  pillow,  and  was  still 
again. 

She  went  back  again  to  the  window,  and 
again  her  thoughts  took  possession  of  her. 
She  began  to  argue  with  herself,  to  assure 
herself  that  there  was  no  reason  to  be  afraid. 
She  even  began  to  feel  ashamed  of  her  weak- 
ness. *  Is  there  any  danger  ?  isn't  he  better  ?  * 
she  murmured.  *  Why,  if  we  had  not  been  at 
the  theatre  to-day,  all  this  would  never  have 
entered  my  head.' 

At  that  instant  she  saw  high  above  the  water 
a  white  sea-gull ;  some  fisherman  had  scared  it, 
it  seemed,  for  it  flew  noiselessly  with  uncertain 
course,  as  though  seeking  a  spot  where  it  could 
alight.  *  Come,  if  it  flies  here,'  thought  Elena, 
*  it  will  be  a  good  omen.'  ,  .  .  The  sea-gull  flew 
round  in  a  circle,  folded  its  wings,  and,  as 
though  it  had  been  shot,  dropped  with  a  plain- 
272 


ON   THE  EVE 


tive  cry  In  the  distance  behind  a  dark  ship. 
Elena  shuddered ;  then  she  was  ashamed  of 
having  shuddered,  and,  without  undressing,  she 
lay  down  on  the  bed  beside  Insarov,  who  was 
breathing  quickly  and  heavily. 


a73 


XXXIV 

Insarov  waked  late  with  a  dull  pain  in  his 
head,  and  a  feeling,  as  he  expressed  it,  of  dis- 
gusting weakness  all  over.  He  got  up  however. 
*Renditch  has  not  come?'  was  his  first  ques- 
tion. 

*  Not  yet,'  answered  Elena,  and  she  handed 
him  the  latest  number  of  the  Osservatore  Tries- 
tino^  in  which  there  was  much  upon  the  war,  the 
Slav  Provinces,  and  the  Principalities.  Insarov 
began  reading  it ;  she  busied  herself  in  getting 
some  coffee  ready  for  him.  Some  one  knocked 
at  the  door. 

*  Renditch,'  both  thought  at  once,  but  a  voice 
said  in  Russian,  *  May  I  come  in?'  Elena  and 
Insarov  looked  at  each  other  in  astonishment ; 
and  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  an  elegantly 
dressed  young  man  entered  the  room,  with  a 
small  sharp-featured  face,  and  bright  little  eyes. 
He  was  beaming  all  over,  as  though  he  had  just 
won  a  fortune  or  heard  a  most  delightful  piece 
of  news. 

274 


ON   THE  EVB 

Insarov  got  up  from  his  seat 

*  You  don't  recognise  me/  began  the  stranger, 
going  up  to  him  with  an  easy  air,  and  bowing 
politely  to  Elena,  *  Lupoyarov,  do  you  remem- 
ber, we  met  at  Moscow  at  the  E 's/ 

*  Yes,  at  the  E 's,'  replied  Insarov. 

*  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure !  I  beg  you  to  pre- 
sent me  to  your  wife.  Madam,  I  have  always 
had  the  profoundest  respect  for  Dmitri  Vassil- 
yevitch'  (he  corrected  himself) — *for  Nikanor 
Vassilyevitch,  and  am  very  happy  to  have  the 
pleasure  at  last  of  making  your  acquaintance. 
Fancy,'  he  continued,  turning  to  Insarov,  'I 
only  heard  yesterday  evening  that  you  wer^ 
here.  I  am  staying  at  this  hotel  too.  What  a 
city  !  Venice  is  poetry — that 's  the  only  word 
for  it !  But  one  thing 's  really  awful :  the  cursed 
Austrians  meeting  one  at  every  turn  !  ah,  these 
Austrians  !  By  the  way,  have  you  heard,  there 's 
been  a  decisive  battle  on  the  Danube :  three 
hundred  Turkish  officers  killed,  Silistria  taken ; 
Servia  has  declared  its  independence.  You,  as 
a  patriot,  ought  to  be  in  transports,  oughtn't 
you  ?  Even  my  Slavonic  blood 's  positively  on 
fire  !  I  advise  you  to  be  more  careful,  though  ; 
I  'm  convinced  there 's  a  watch  kept  on  you. 
The  spies  here  are  something  awful  I  A  sus- 
picious-looking man  came  up  to  me  yesterday 
and  asked  :  "  Are  you  a  Russian  ?"     I  told  him 

275 


ON  THE  EVE 

I  was  a  Dane.  But  you  seem  unwell,  dear 
Nikanor  Vassilyevitch.  You  ought  to  see  a 
doctor ;  madam,  you  ought  to  make  your  hus- 
band see  a  doctor.  Yesterday  I  ran  through 
the  palaces  and  churches,  as  though  I  were 
crazy.  I  suppose  you  Ve  been  in  the  palace  of 
the  Doges  ?  What  magnificence  everywhere ! 
Especially  that  great  hall  and  Marino  Faliero's 
place  :  there 's  an  inscription  :  decapitati  pro 
criminibus.  I've  been  in  the  famous  prisons 
too ;  that  threw  me  into  indignation,  you  may 
fancy.  I  Ve  always,  you  remember  perhaps, 
taken  an  interest  in  social  questions,  and  taken 
sides  against  aristocracy — well,  that 's  where  I 
should  like  to  send  the  champions  of  aristocracy 
— to  those  dungeons.  How  well  Byron  said  :  / 
stood  in  Venice  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs ;  though 
he  was  an  aristocrat  too.  I  was  always  for  pro- 
gress— the  younger  generation  are  all  for  pro- 
gress. And  what  do  you  say  to  the  Anglo- 
French  business  ?  We  shall  see  whether  they 
can  do  much,  Boustrapa  and  Palmerston.  You 
know  Palmerston  has  been  made  Prime  Minister. 
No,  say  what  you  like,  the  Russian  fist  is  not  to 
be  despised.  He's  awfully  deep  that  Boustrapa! 
If  you  like  I  will  lend  you  Les  Chdtiments  de 
Victor  Hugo — it 's  marvellous — Lavenir,  le gen- 
darme de  Dieu — rather  boldly  written,  but  what 
force  in  it,  what  force !  That  was  a  fine  saying, 
276 


ON    THE  EVE 

too,  of  Prince  Vyazemsky's :  "  Europe  repeats : 
Bash-Kadik-Lar  keeping  an  eye  on  Sinope."  I 
adore  poetry.  I  have  Proudhon's  last  work, 
too — I  have  everything.  I  don't  know  how  you 
feel,  but  I  'm  glad  of  the  war ;  only  as  I  'm  not 
required  at  home,  I  'm  going  from  here  to 
Florence,  and  to  Rome.  France  I  can't  go  to — 
so  I  'm  thinking  of  Spain — the  women  there, 
I  'm  told,  are  marvellous !  only  such  poverty, 
and  so  many  insects.  I  would  be  off  to  Cali- 
fornia— we  Russians  are  ready  to  do  anything 
— but  I  promised  an  editor  to  study  the  ques- 
tion of  the  commerce  of  the  Mediterranean  in 
detail.  You  will  say  that's  an  uninteresting, 
special  subject,  but  that's  just  what  we  need, 
specialists  ;  we  have  philosophised  enough,  now 
we  need  the  practical,  the  practical.  But  you 
are  very  unwell,  Nikanor  Vassilyevitch,  I  am 
tiring  you,  perhaps,  but  still  I  must  stay  a  little 
longer.' 

And  for  a  long  time  Lupoyarov  still  babbled 
on  in  the  same  way,  and,  as  he  went  away,  he 
promised  to  come  again. 

Worn  out  by  the  unexpected  visit,  Insarov 
lay  down  on  the  sofa.  *  So  this,'  he  said,  mourn- 
fully looking  at  Elena,  *  is  your  younger  genera- 
tion !  There  are  plenty  who  show  off,  and  give 
themselves  airs,  while  at  heart  they  are  as  empty 
chatterboxes  as  that  worthy.' 
277 


ON  THE  EVE 

Elena  made  no  reply  to  her  husband  ;  at  that 
instant  she  was  far  more  concerned  at  Insarov's 
weakness  than  at  the  character  of  the  whole 
younger  generation  in  Russia.  She  sat  down 
near  him,  and  took  up  some  work.  He  closed 
his  eyes,  and  lay  without  moving,  white  and 
thin.  Elena  glanced  at  his  sharp  profile,  at  his 
emaciated  hands,  and  felt  a  sudden  pang  of 
terror. 

*  Dmitri,'  she  began. 

He  started.     *Eh?     Has  Renditch  come?* 

*  Not  yet — but  what  do  you  think — you  are 
in  a  fever,  you  are  really  not  quite  well,  shouldn'jt 
we  send  for  a  doctor?' 

*That  wretched  gossip  has  frightened  you. 
There 's  no  necessity.  I  will  rest  a  little,  and  it 
will  pass  off.  After  dinner  we  will  go  out  again 
— somewhere.' 

Two  hours  passed.  Insarov  still  lay  on  the 
sofa,  but  he  could  not  sleep,  though  he  did  not 
open  his  eyes.  Elena  did  not  leave  his  side ; 
she  had  dropped  her  work  upon  her  knee,  and 
did  not  stir. 

*  Why  don't  you  go  to  sleep?'  she  asked  at  last. 

*  Wait  a  little.'  He  took  her  hand,  and  placed 
it  under  his  head.  *  There — that  is  nice.  Wake 
me  at  once  directly  Renditch  comes.  If  he  says 
the  ship  is  ready,  we  will  start  at  once.  We 
ought  to  pack  everything.* 

278 


ON   THE  EVE 

*  Packing  won't  take  long/  answered  Elena. 

*  That  fellow  babbled  something  about  a  battle, 
about  Servia,'  said  Insarov,  after  a  short  interval. 
*  I  suppose  he  made  it  all  up.  But  we  must,  we 
must  start.     We  can't  lose  time.     Be  ready.' 

He  fell  asleep,  and  everything  was  still  in  the 
room. 

Elena  let  her  head  rest  against  the  back  of 
her  chair,  and  gazed  a  long  while  out  of  the 
window.  The  weather  had  changed  for  the 
worse  ;  the  wind  had  risen.  Great  white  clouds 
were  scudding  over  the  sky,  a  slender  mast  was 
swaying  in  the  distance,  a  long  streamer,  with  a 
red  cross  on  it,  kept  fluttering,  falling,  and 
fluttering  again.  The  pendulum  of  the  old- 
fashioned  clock  ticked  drearily,  with  a  kind  of 
melancholy  whirr.  Elena  shut  her  eyes.  She 
had  slept  badly  all  night;  gradually  she,  too, 
fell  asleep. 

She  had  a  strange  dream.  She  thought  she 
was  floating  in  a  boat  on  the  Tsaritsino  lake  with 
some  unknown  people.  They  did  not  speak, 
but  sat  motionless,  no  one  was  rowing ;  the  boat 
was  moving  by  itself.  Elena  was  not  afraid, 
but  she  felt  dreary ;  she  wanted  to  know  who 
were  these  people,  and  why  she  was  with  them  ? 
She  looked  and  the  lake  grew  broader,  the 
banks  vanished — now  it  was  not  a  lake  but  a 
stormy  sea :  immense  blue  silent  waves  rocked 
279 


ON  THE  EVE 

the  boat  majestically ;  something  menacing,  roar- 
ing was  rising  from  the  depths ;  her  unknown 
companions  jumped  up,  shrieking,  wringing  their 
hands  .  .  .  Elena  recognised  their  faces ;  her 
1  father  was  among  them.  But  a  kind  of  white 
'  I  whirlwind  came  flying  over  the  waves — every- 
thing was  turning  round,  everything  was  con- 
founded together. 

Elena  looked  about  her ;  as  before,  all  around 
-^was  white ;  but  it  was  snow,  snow,  boundless 
plains  of  snow.  And  she  was  not  now  in  a  boat, 
but  travelling,  as  she  had  come  from  Moscow,  in 
a  sledge  ;  she  was  not  alone  ;  by  her  side  was 
sitting  a  little  creature  muffled  in  an  old  cloak  ; 
Elena  looked  closely ;  it  was  Katya,  her  poor 
little  friend.  Elena  was  seized  with  terror. 
*  Why,  isn't  she  dead  ? '  she  thought. 

*  Katya,  where  are  we  going  together  ? '  Katya 
did  not  answer,  and  nestled  herself  closer  in  her 
little  cloak  ;  she  was  freezing.  Elena  too  was 
cold ;  she  looked  along  the  road  into  the 
distance ;  far  away  a  town  could  be  seen 
through  the  fine  drifting  snow.  High  white 
towers  with  silvery  cupolas  ...  *  Katya,  Katya, 
is  it  Moscow  ?  No,'  thought  Elena,  *  it  is  Solo- 
vetsky  Monastery  ;  it 's  full  of  little  narrow  cells 
like  a  beehive  ;  it 's  stifling,  cramping  there — 
and  Dmitri 's  shut  up  there.  I  must  rescue  him.' 
.  ,  .  Suddenly  a  grey,  yawning  abyss  opened 
280 


ON   THE   EVE 

before  her.  The  sledge  was  falling,  Katya  was 
laughing.  'Elena,  Elena!'  came  a  voice  from 
the  abyss. 

'  Elena ! '  sounded  distinctly  in  her  ears. 
She  raised  her  head  quickly,  turned  round,  and 
was  stupefied  :  Insarov,  white  as  snow,  the  snow 
of  her  dream,  had  half  risen  from  the  sofa,  and 
was  staring  at  her  with  large,  bright,  dreadful 
eyes.  His  hair  hung  in  disorder  on  his  fore- 
head and  his  lips  parted  strangely.  Horror, 
mingled  with  an  anguish  of  tenderness,  was 
expressed  on  his  suddenly  transfigured  face. 
'  Elena ! '  he  articulated,  *  I  am  dying.' 
She  fell  with  a  scream  on  her  knees,  and 
clung  to  his  breast. 

*  It's  all  over,'  repeated  Insarov:  *  I  'm  dying 
.  ,  .  Good-bye,  my  poor  girl !  good-bye,  my 
country !'  and  he  fell  backwards  on  to  the  sofa. 

Elena  rushed  out  of  the  room,  began  calling 
for  help  ;  a  waiter  ran  for  a  doctor.  Elena  clung 
to  Insarov. 

At  that  instant  in  the  doorway  appeared  a 
broad-shouldered,  sunburnt  man,  in  a  stout  frieze 
coat  and  a  low  oil-skin  hat  He  stood  still  in 
bewilderment 

*  Renditch !  *  cried  Elena,  *  it 's  you !  Look, 
for  God's  sake,  he 's  ill !  What 's  wrong  ?  Good 
God  !  He  went  out  yesterday,  he  was  talking  to 
me  just  now.' 

281 


ON  THE  EVE 

Renditch  said  nothing  and  only  moved  on 
one  side.  There  slipped  quickly  past  him  a 
little  figure  in  a  wig  and  spectacles  ;  it  was  a 
doctor  living  in  the  same  hotel.  He  went  up 
to  Insarov. 

*Signora/  he  said,  after  the  lapse  of  a  few 
minutes,  'the  foreign  gentleman  is  dead — il 
Signore  forestiere  e  morte — of  aneurism  in  com- 
bination with  disease  of  the  lungs.' 


282 


XXXV 

The  next  day,  in  the  same  room,  Renditch  was 
standing  at  the  window ;  before  him,  wrapped  in 
a  shawl,  sat  Elena.  In  the  next  room,  Insarov 
lay  in  his  coffin.  Elena's  face  was  both  scared 
and  lifeless ;  two  lines  could  be  seen  on  her 
forehead  between  her  eyebrows;  they  gave  a 
strained  expression  to  her  fixed  eyes.  In  the 
window  lay  an  open  letter  from  Anna  Vassil- 
yevna.  She  begged  her  daughter  to  come  to 
Moscow  if  only  for  a  month,  complained  of  her 
loneliness,  and  of  Nikolai  Artemyevitch,  sent 
greetings  to  Insarov,  inquired  after  his  health, 
and  begged  him  to  spare  his  wife. 

Renditch  was  a  Dalmatian,  a  sailor,  with 
whom  Insarov  had  become  acquainted  during 
his  wanderings  in  his  own  country,  and  whom 
he  had  sought  out  in  Venice.  He  was  a  dry, 
gruff  man,  full  of  daring  and  devoted  to  the 
Slavonic  cause.  He  despised  the  Turks  and 
hated  the  Austrians. 

*  How  long  must  you  remain  at  Venice  ?  * 
283 


ON  THE  EVE 

Elena  asked  him  in  Italian.  And  her  voice  was 
as  lifeless  as  her  face. 

*One  day  for  freighting  and  not  to  rouse 
suspicions,  and  then  straight  to  Zara.  I  shall 
have  sad  news  for  our  countrymen.  They 
have  long  been  expecting  him ;  they  rested 
their  hopes  on  him.' 

*They  rested  their  hopes  on  him,'  Elena 
repeated  mechanically. 

*  When  will  you  bury  him  ?  *  asked  Renditch. 
Elena  not  at  once  replied,   *  To-morrow.* 

*  To-morrow  ?  I  will  stop ;  I  should  like  to 
throw  a  handful  of  earth  into  his  grave.  And 
you  will  want  help.  But  it  would  have  been 
better  for  him  to  lie  in  Slavonic  earth/ 

Elena  looked  at  Renditch. 

*  Captain,'  she  said,  '  take  me  and  him  and 
carry  us  across  to  the  other  side  of  the  sea, 
away  from  here.     Isn't  that  possible  ? ' 

Renditch  considered  :  *  Possible  certainly,  but 
difficult.  We  shall  have  to  come  into  collision 
with  the  damned  authorities  here.  But  suppos- 
ing we  arrange  all  that  and  bury  him  there, 
how  am  I  to  bring  you  back  ? ' 

*  You  need  not  bring  me  back.' 

*  What  ?  where  will  you  stop  ? ' 

*  I  shall  find  some  place  for  myself ;  only  take 
us,  take  me.' 

Renditch   scratched   the   back   of  his  head. 
284 


ON   THE  EVE 

*  You  know  best ;  but  it 's  all  very  difficult.  I 
will,  I  will  try ;  and  you  expect  me  here  in  two 
hours'  time/ 

He  went  away.  Elena  passed  into  the  next 
room,  leaned  against  the  wall,  and  for  a  long 
time  stood  there  as  though  turned  to  stone 
Then  she  dropped  on  her  knees,  but  she  could 
not  pray.  There  was  no  reproach  in  her  heart ; 
she  did  not  dare  to  question  God's  will,  to  ask 
why  He  had  not  spared,  pitied,  saved,  why 
He  had  punished  her  beyond  her  guilt,  if  she 
were  guilty.  Each  of  us  is  guilty  by  the  fact 
that  he  lives ;  and  there  is  no  one  so  great  a 
thinker,  so  great  a  benefactor  of  mankind  that 
he  might  hope  to  have  a  right  to  live  for  the 
service  he  has  done.  .  .  .  Still  Elena  could  not 
pray  ;  she  was  a  stone. 

The  same  night  a  broad-bottomed  boat  put 
off  from  the  hotel  where  the  Insarovs  lived.  In 
the  boat  sat  Elena  with  Renditch  and  beside 
them  stood  a  long  box  covered  with  a  black 
cloth.  They  rowed  for  about  an  hour,  and  at 
last  reached  a  small  two-masted  ship,  which  was 
riding  at  anchor  at  the  very  entrance  of  the 
harbour.  Elena  and  Renditch  got  into  the 
ship  ;  the  sailors  carried  in  the  box.  At  mid- 
night a  storm  had  arisen,  but  early  in  the 
morning  the  ship  had  passed  out  of  the  Lido. 
During  the  day  the  storm  raged  with  fearful 
285 


ON  THE  EVE 

violence,  and  experienced  seamen  in  Lloyd's 
offices  shook  their  heads  and  prophesied  no 
good.  The  Adriatic  Sea  between  Venice, 
Trieste,  and  the  Dalmatian  coast  is  particularly 
dangerous. 

Three  weeks  after  Elena's  departure  from 
Vienna,  Anna  Vassilyevna  received  the  follow- 
ing letter  in  Moscow : — 

*My  Dear  Parents.— -I  am  saying  good- 
bye to  you  for  ever.  You  will  never  see  me  again. 
Dmitri  died  yesterday.  Everything  is  over 
for  me.  To-day  I  am  setting  off  with  his 
body  to  Zara.  I  will  bury  him,  and  what  will 
become  of  me,  I  don't  know.  But  now  I  have 
no  country  but  Dmitri's  country.  There,  they 
are  preparing  for  revolution,  they  are  getting 
ready  for  war.  I  will  join  the  Sisters  of 
Mercy  ;  I  will  tend  the  sick  and  the  wounded.  I 
don't  know  what  will  become  of  me,  but  even 
after  Dmitri's  death,  I  will  be  faithful  to  his 
memory,  to  the  work  of  his  whole  life.  I 
have  learnt  Bulgarian  and  Servian.  Very 
likely,  I  shall  not  have  strength  to  live  through 
It  all  for  long — so  much  the  better.  I  have  been 
brought  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice  and  I  must 
fall  over.  Fate  did  not  bring  us  together  for 
nothing ;  who  knows  ? — perhaps  I  killed  him  ; 
now  it  is  his  turn  to  draw  me  after  him.  I 
286 


ON  THE  EVE 

sought  happiness,  and  I  shall  find — perhaps 
death.  It  seems  it  was  to  be  thus  :  it  seems  it 
was  a  sin.  .  .  .  But  death  covers  all  and  recon- 
ciles all  ;  does  it  not  ?  Forgive  me  all  the 
suffering  I  have  caused  you  ;  it  was  not  under 
my  control.  But  how  could  I  return  to 
Russia ;     What  have  I  to  do  in  Russia  ? 

*  Accept  my  last  kisses  and  blessings,  and  do 
not  condemn  me.  R-' 

•  ••••• 

Nearly  five  years  have  passed  since  then, 
and  no  further  news  of  Elena  has  come.  All 
letters  and  inquiries  were  fruitless  ;  in  vain  did 
Nikolai  Artemyevitch  himself  make  a  journey 
to  Venice  and  to  Zara  after  peace  was  con- 
cluded. In  Venice  he  learnt  what  is  already 
Known  to  the  reader,  but  in  Zara  no  one 
30uld  give  him  any  positive  information  about 
Renditch  and  the  ship  he  had  taken.  There 
were  dark  rumours  that  some  years  back,  after  a 
great  storm,  the  sea  had  thrown  up  on  shore  a 
coffin  in  which  had  been  found  a  man's  body 
.  .  .  But  according  to  other  more  trustworthy 
accounts  this  coffin  had  not  been  thrown  up  by 
the  sea  at  all,  but  had  been  carried  over  and 
buried  near  the  shore  by  a  foreign  lady,  coming 
from  Venice  ;  some  added  that  they  had  seen 
this  lady  afterwards  in  Herzegovina,  with  the 
forces  which  were  there  assembled  ;  they  even 
287 


ON   THE  EVE 

described  her  dress,  black  from  head  to  foot 
However  it  was,  all  trace  of  Elena  had  disap- 
peared beyond  recovery  for  ever ;  and  no  one 
knows  whether  she  is  still  living,  whether  she  is 
hidden  away  somewhere,  or  whether  the  petty 
drama  of  life  is  over — the  little  ferment  of  her 
existence  is  at  an  end  ;  and  she  has  found  death 
in  her  turn.  It  happens  at  times  that  a  man 
wakes  up  and  asks  himself  with  involuntary 
horror,  *  Can  I  be  already  thirty  .  .  .  forty  .  .  . 
fifty  ?  How  is  it  life  has  passed  so  soon  ?  How 
is  it  death  has  moved  up  so  close  ? '  Death  is 
like  a  fisher  who  catches  fish  in  his  net  and 
leaves  them  for  a  while  in  the  water ;  the  fish 
is  still  swimming  but  the  net  is  round  him,  and 
the  fisher  will  draw  him  up — when  he  thinks 
fit 

What  became  of  the  other  characters  of  our 
story  ? 

Anna  Vassilyevna  is  still  living;  she  has 
aged  very  much  since  the  blow  that  has  fallen 
on  her ;  is  less  complaining,  but  far  more 
wretched.  Nikolai  Artemyevitch,  too,  has  grown 
older  and  greyer,  and  has  parted  from  Augustina 
Christianovna,  ,  .  .  He  has  taken  now  to  abus- 
ing everything  foreign.  His  housekeeper,  a 
handsome  woman  of  thirty,  a  Russian,  wears 
silk  dresses  and  gold  rings  and  bracelets.  Kur- 
288 


ON  THE  EVE 

natovsky,  like  every  man  of  ardent  tempera- 
ment and  dark  complexion,  a  devoted  admirer 
of  pretty  blondes,  married  Zoya  ;  she  is  in  com- 
plete subjection  to  him  and  has  even  given  up 
thinking  in  German.  Bersenyev  is  in  Heidel- 
berg ;  he  has  been  sent  abroad  at  the  expense 
of  government ;  he  has  visited  Berlin  and  Paris 
and  is  not  wasting  his  time ;  he  has  become  a 
thoroughly  efficient  professor.  The  attention 
of  the  learned  public  has  been  caught  by 
his  two  articles :  *  On  some  peculiarities  of 
ancient  law  as  regards  judicial  sentences,'  and 

*  On  the  significance  of  cities  in  civilisa- 
tion/ It  is  only  a  pity  that  both  articles  are 
written  in  rather  a  heavy  style,  disfigured  by 
foreign  words.  Shubin  is  in  Rome  ;  he  is  com- 
pletely given  up  to  his  art  and  is  reckoned  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  and  promising  of  young 
sculptors.  Severe  tourists  consider  that  he  has 
not  sufficiently  studied  the  antique,  that  he  has 

*  no  style,'  and  reckon  him  one  of  the  French 
school ;  he  has  had  a  great  many  orders 
from  the  English  and  Americans.  Of  late, 
there  has  been  much  talk  about  a  Bacchante 
of  his  ;  the  Russian  Count  Boboshkin,  the  well- 
known  millionaire,  thought  of  buying  it  for 
one  thousand  scudi,  but  decided  in  pre- 
ference to  give  three  thousand  to  another 
sculptor,  French  pur  sang^   for  a  group  en- 

289  T 


ON  THE  EVE 

titled,  *  A  youthful  shepherdess  dying  for  love 
in  the  bosom  of  the  Genius  of  Spring.'  Shubin 
writes  from  time  to  time  to  Uvar  Ivanovitch, 
who  alone  has  remained  quite  unaltered  in 
all  respects.  *Do  you  remember,'  he  wrote 
to  him  lately, '  what  you  said  to  me  that  night, 
when  poor  Elena's  marriage  was  made  known, 
when  I  was  sitting  on  your  bed  talking  to  you  ? 
Do  you  remember  I  asked  you,  "  Will  there  ever 
be  men  among  us  ?  "  and  you  answered  "  There 
will  be."  O  primeval  force !  And  now  from 
here  in  "  my  poetic  distance,"  I  will  ask  you 
again:  "What  do  you  say,  Uvar  Ivanovitch, 
will  there  be  ? '" 

Uvar  Ivanovitch  flourished  his   fingers   and 
fixed  his  enigmatical  stare  into  the  far  distance. 


Printer!  by  T.  and  A,  Constablk,  Printers  to  His  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  UniY«rsity  Press 


14  DAY  USE 

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